


Cirque de Lune

by lunchbucket



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - The Night Circus Fusion, Circus, Inspired by The Night Circus, M/M, Magic, Magic Tricks, Post-First War with Voldemort, Rebuilding, Voldemort Died, aftermath of war, dumbledore died, harry died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchbucket/pseuds/lunchbucket
Summary: The same words that have been whispered around the country for years now — the circus that travels with the moon. The circus that appears suddenly like clockwork, the new moon announcing its arrival, but the location always left a mystery until it’s not. No announcements in the paper precede its arrival, no advertisements printed on black and white ink are posted throughout the town. One day it is not there, and the next, it simply appears.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 63
Kudos: 83
Collections: RS Fireside Tales Vol.2





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt P28  
> 
> 
> 1\. Thank you so much to the mods, who were truly wonderful and positive throughout this entire fest.  
> 2\. The concept for the setting and some imagery of this fic was heavily inspired by "The Night Circus" by Erin Morgenstern. All things considered, I would called it a HP/Night Circus fusion. Enjoy :)!

The stars shine luminously from above, breaking through the crisp darkness. 

Bright flickers of light unreachable by this world, yet still oddly familiar. Intimate, these never-changing fixtures plotted against the heavens — small reminders of mystery and the unknown. From somewhere in the distance the throaty melody of forest wildlife, of toads and crickets and leaves rustling as small critters scurry across branches, plays against the twinkling backdrop. Grass sways calmly in the easy night breeze — and stars glimmer one moment, until they don’t the next.

The image dulls as thick fog rolls in out of nowhere, and the forest melody pauses all at once as if halted by a conductor’s hand. The interrupting billows just hang there silently, the last pitch reverberating for a moment within the echo chamber of heavy mist, until all falls into complete silence. The fog slowly expands skywards to consume the glow of every star and intertwines delicately between the blades of grass below, like newly spun cotton candy, obscuring everything that it comes into contact with. The air is fragrant; almost sweet. 

A few moments pass before a ripple disturbs the thick blanket of white. Points of light appear one by one and intensify as if hooked to a dimmer switch, imperceptible at first until there is no mistaking their presence. The mist parts and lifts skyward like an ethereal curtain, presenting a new scene that has materialized on the field.

A group of large tents rests atop the grass now, the long sharp curves of the draping panels creating loud, geometric contrast to the vast, silent expanse of surrounding space.

The tattered fabric shines with vague fluorescence, the alternating strips of black and white infused with an otherworldly gloom that is only barely there against the curiously ash-gray surrounding sky. Nature’s colors have been washed away — the vibrant green of the grass, the rich brown bark all muted — and replaced with the radioactive texture of dark energy instead. 

The stars have been pushed back into the black night and obscured completely now behind the diffused mist and the lights, and only this strange new world is left visible to the human eye in its wake. Tent after utterly motionless tent reaches into the distance, all enclosed in a perfect circle of black iron fencing, the severe points of each post mimicking the shapes they surround and keeping all of the colors and movement out.

A wind stirs the trees and picks up momentum, and a single leaf begins to tumble over the grass. It sputters across tall green blades before finally finding purchase against the ornate, Victorian molding of the gate, going no further for a moment despite the insistent wind. Everything inside is gravely still — and then the fabric of the tents reacts, as if on a small delay, rippling into life as the surrounding forest sounds return all at once.

A resounding _pop_ splices its way through the silence and echoes against the surrounding trees, the familiar precursor of a new arrival. A cloaked figure appears out of nothingness, a woman, slight in size and hesitant in her gait. She pauses for a moment as she stares at the sight in front of her, with concern perhaps, or fear, or maybe merely wonder. 

But she trudges onward, in the direction of the black and white stripes and the fog and everything else that lies within it all. The misty air encloses her, ushering her on with a mind of its own, as she moves herself closer and closer to the entrance gates ahead that begin to glow brighter as she approaches — a glow that draws anyone who sees it in with the thrill of anticipation for whatever oddities surely lie inside, mixed with a fraction of dread about the same.

 _Cirque de Lune_ is scrawled elegantly atop the gate in the same wrought-iron, but gleaming brighter than anything else around it, highlighting it against the backdrop of colorless tents. But the circus is not open to guests. Not yet. The space behind the gate is empty and still, no sign of life, seemingly abandoned except for the large black sign pinned squarely into the grass. 

_Opens at Nightfall._

_Closes at Dawn._

The woman reaches the entrance moments later and wraps her hands around the cold metal, thwarted by the locked gates that greet her and the sign that informs her that they won’t be opening for another 16 hours at least. She gives the fence a diminutive shake with her fists, but it’s no surprise that the gate gives no sign of budging. She releases her hands and takes a step back, running a hand through her hair and resting it at the nape of her neck.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and her voice quivers at the end of the word. She turns around to look in the direction she came from, feeling exposed while still outside of the safety of the gate, but the path she had taken from her arrival has been consumed by the fog. Erased from the world.

“Hello, Jonna,” a deep voice pulls her attention back as she whips her head around again with a gasp. A tall man dressed in a suit the color of a starless night is leaning motionless against the gate, which stands wide open now. His complexion matches the pale glow of the tents, and if she hadn’t known he was there, he could have blended into the background, unnoticed. His dark hair falls forward onto his shoulder as he stands upright and reaches a steady hand toward her, which she takes in her shaking one. “We’ve been expecting you.”


	2. Fog Descends

Curiosity outweighs the trepidation. Excitement outweighs the fear.

Our guest arrives at the clearing, just one face in a huge throng of people making their way to the front gates, where the words above are gleaming brightly like magnified starlight: 

_Cirque de Lune._

The same words that have been whispered around the country for years now — the circus that travels with the moon. The circus that appears suddenly like clockwork, the new moon announcing its arrival, but the location always left a mystery until it’s not. No announcements in the paper precede its arrival, no advertisements printed on black and white ink are posted throughout the town. One day it is not there, and the next, it simply appears. 

She follows the crowd, anticipation building with each step. Word of what takes place inside the mysterious compound of tents has gotten around, and the people making their way to the entrance can’t seem to hide their excitement. It’s palpable in the air and in their voices, discussing which acts they’re most eager to see first. Rooms of vivid constellations, acrobats flying through the air — higher above the crowd than the tents should physically allow — and contortionists whose bodies appear boneless as they twist and fold, a woman who can walk through fire unscathed, a man who can turn himself into a large animal and then back again. 

Parents lift their children up on their shoulders and folks grab their partners’ hands, stopping briefly to marvel at the size of the tents that seem to tower impossibly higher and higher the closer they get. They stare at the hot air balloons hovering hundreds of feet up, black and white striped balloons that suggest tents are not only for use on the ground, but for the sky as well. The tickets aren’t cheap, but even from outside the gates, it’s clear that the price is well worth it. 

The pathways between the tents are bare, and the circus would appear to be abandoned if it weren’t for the onslaught of irresistible smells wafting their way: a sensory tease of melted chocolate and caramel corn and candied apples that sends a flush of warmth through the incoming guests’ nostrils and into their entire being, comforting them from head to toe on this otherwise cold, unremarkable autumn evening. 

The sun disappears completely behind the trees, shifting the sky’s colors from the last moments of red dusk into nightfall. The crowd of people falls into spontaneous silence, a buzz of excitement that nobody speaks of but that everybody knows is shared, an electric current uniting them all in identical silent anticipation. Hundreds of eyes are glued to the gate, waiting. Waiting for _something_ , but they know not what.

And then it happens.

The thick blanket of fog expands above, and within seconds it has encapsulated the crowd fully, ushering them closer to the gates and blocking out the moonless sky completely, as if the sky no longer exists as all. A crackling sound follows, soft like a campfire, but somehow audible above the sudden reanimation of the crowd and the whistling of the wind. 

And then the tents are aglow, glittering wildly and towering impossibly high, taller than they were when the guests had arrived, higher than the trees surrounding them now. An illusion no doubt. The music starts, a lofty romantic tune, slower and far more whimsy than anything else our guest has heard at a carnival before. Eerie, but she feels pulled towards it nevertheless, as if she is floating in a dream.

“The Moon Circus,” a fellow guest announces loudly next to her, awed with the same splendor that has befallen the entire crowd, and she turns to look at the entrance gates. 

If the sign above had been glowing before nightfall, the looping cursive letters are absolutely radiant now, emanating a celestial brightness that engulfs the tents behind it and the moon above. If she were to touch the french lettering, her hand would surely burn. 

With a final click, the entrance gates unlock, and the next moment, a man and woman appear on either side of it. The crowd is massive, but the guests squeeze through quickly, an invisible hand turning chaos into order, and in minutes, they arrive at the entrance and fall into line.

Suddenly she’s next up, and she gives her ticket to the woman, reserving a brief moment to take her in while she’s busy tearing the stub away. The beautiful usher is wearing a fitted red and white fitted jumpsuit, checkered from the ankles to just under her bust, with billowing white fabric covering the rest of her. An ornate collar of white tulle frames her jawbone dramatically, and a bright white smile framed by blood red lips with black lip-liner greets our guest as she returns a smile of her own, takes the stub from between her black lacquered fingernails and passes through the gates. 

She decides to take a swift right, following the path that looked slightly less chaotic with activity, but not by much. Meandering through the crowd, she sees a kiosk of animated chocolate animals to her right, and a tent that promises a fortune-teller to her left. She wants to see it all before the Circus leaves, the flame-throwers and the shapeshifters and the creatures that they call ‘goblins’ in the tent just in front of her, but she knows what she must see first. And she keeps her eyes peeled for the signs above each tent as she passes by, waiting to read the name that has been whispered across the country for years now. Ever since things in Europe had begun to go inexplicably wrong.

Tent after tent after tent, and alas, she finds it. The lettering of his name sparking in a deep charcoal-gray print as a line of people walk through the flaps of the tent entrance underneath it, strangely one of the smaller ones in the vicinity. She follows the crowd, people with the same idea that she has, and is bewildered to find that the room inside is vast — far vaster than one would ever assume from the exterior. She wheels her head around to take in the area, finding chairs spanning across the entire space, surrounding the small, undecorated stage sitting unassumingly in the middle of it all. 

The man is billed as Black the Enchanter, but not much else is known about him. The alleged creator of the Circus, he is also the most renowned act. And the room is nearly full. She finds an empty seat at the end of the fourth row and sits down. The anticipation is back, buzzing through the room, or perhaps it never left at all. Her fingers move down to rest on her knee, her left hand picking at the loose thread on her worn jeans, mind vaguely noting the smell of confectioner’s sugar and cinnamon apples filling the air around her. 

A child to our guest’s right sits between her parents clutches onto a balloon for dear life; an inflated, lilac purple elephant whose sparkling tusks mimic the glittery purple Mary Janes she’s wearing exactly. She’s totally silent but a bright smile lights up her face. The little girl can’t stop staring up at her coveted balloon as if nothing else exists, even as her parents dig into the funnel cake they’d brought inside with them, and our guest wonders for a moment what she herself would give to experience this place through the awestruck eyes of a child.

He appears moments later with an unannounced pop. It’s an entrance absurd in its simplicity, and very much in line with everything she has seen of _Cirque de Lune_ so far — pure mystery, unadorned, free of the cheap over-the-top thrills one comes to expect these days from enterprises seeking to enchant and entertain — and there he stands, a figure in black and white and crimson, in the middle of the stage. 

She clutches the arm of her chair and leans forward instinctively. His demeanor is the most striking thing about him at first glance, which is significant considering his utterly striking physical appearance. There’s a surety in his steps as he slowly strides forward in tall laced-up black leather boots to the edge of the stage amidst the dizzying din of whooping and clapping from the audience, a graceful competence in the way he holds his wand and steadies his black tophat as he leans forward for three introductory bows ahead and to the left and right, an expertise for his craft that is almost jarring when he begins the performance without further preamble. 

The entire audience is captivated from the first wave of Black’s wand. He lifts his right arm with unhurried ease, revealing rich red satin lining the inside of his long-tailed black coat that stands out vividly against the black waistcoat and white shirt it flanks, and with a flick of his wrist, somehow transforms each guest’s casual attire of sweaters and dirty worn-out boots into evening wear of the grandest sort. Women are suddenly outfitted in long gowns of either black or white, all of which reach the floor, but somehow remain impeccably immune to the dirt on the ground. Men wear the sharpest suits, black and white as well, classic and elegant. 

The audience is going absolutely mad now, pointing to one another in shock and then clutching at their own gowns and coats with wonder, men and women alike, feeling beautiful — like a prize. Our guest looks up from the white tulle at her wrists to see him spin on his heels to walk back toward the center of the stage, an image of all black and long limbs, and revealing soles that are perfect, bone white with every step.

He begins his show without a word, beginning with a series of ornate illusions, each more grand and awe-inducing than the one that came before. Levitation and invisibility beguile those who see it happen, and stun those who are lucky enough to experience it themselves. A burst of bright blue flames engulfs the entire stage, and Black along with it, but he remains untouched, and somehow glowing even brighter than the fire. 

Classic magic tricks are performed, but with a superior skill, and new tricks astound a crowd who never would have thought them possible, even with the slightest of hand and the most deceptive of tools. And when Black disappears and a large black dog takes his place the next moment, the tent becomes so silent that when the little girl with the elephant balloon gasps, it is heard by every person in the room. 

And then the dog is gone, and he appears again.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Black’s melodic tenor is somehow magnified through the entire tent and drawn straight into each person’s eardrums, the audience members in the back row able to hear him just as crisply and intimately as those seated directly in front. It is the first time he has addressed the audience since the show began an hour prior, and his voice is just as enrapturing as the magical atmosphere he has created around them.

Black’s movements are fluid as he crosses the stage in a few long strides. He lifts his chin high and flashes a smile that is all lips and sharp jawline at the audience, letting his gaze land in each section for a brief moment. 

“Now,” he says, before spinning his wand around the fingers of one hand with impossible dexterity, tossing it high into the air only to let it fall delicately down the velvet sleeve of his jacket and into the other hand fluidly a couple paces later, almost with distracted ease. Sounds of wonderment ripple through the audience as he continues on, “I’m not much of an orator — I prefer to let the magic speak for itself. But I’d like to give some context around what you all are about to experience next.” 

He flicks his wand, and if one was paying attention, he would see that Black’s mouth moves minutely along with it. But most people are not looking that closely, as there is so much else to see. A collective gasp reverberates through the arena as the flaps of the entrance billow open suddenly, and a couple of seconds later, a wardrobe flies into the tent. All eyes are glued to the large piece of furniture as it glides about a foot off the ground, through the pathway between the seat sections and toward a landing that’s positioned on the opposite end of the stage as Black.

He smiles, sharp canines flashing.

“I will need a volunteer for this next trick, but let me warn you, it will be frightening. It is made to reveal your deepest fear, the one that you try to avoid and shove into the most hidden depths of your mind where it cannot hurt you. The one that you ignore because it’s easier to live without the knowledge that encountering it is actually a true possibility,” Black explains as he stands relaxed, just barely turning his head to engage as much of the audience around him as possible.

The crowd is silent, and he waits a beat before continuing. “Whether that fear is something small and incidental — snakes for example — or far more existential — destruction, betrayal, death — I will reveal it on this stage. You will not tell me what it is, you will not write it down, the knowledge of what you dread will remain locked inside of your head until I open the door of the wardrobe and you have to face that deepest fear right here, and in front of me and however many people are in this room.”

He smiles brightly to conclude his explanation. The sunny expression in this context has a chilling effect, but as with everything else behind the wrought-iron gates, the pull of curiosity is stronger. 

“Would anybody like to volunteer?” Black drawls, as one arm raises high towards the audience to emphasize the question at hand. 

The room is still for a long while. And then a long while more. Black remains still as well, save for the lean hand reaching into the air which he flexes minutely, his posture easy in the presence of the audience’s now palpable discomfort. A small smile crooks the corner of his lips as the audience members avert their gazes and squirm in their seats so as to unconsciously avoid being called on, all a part of the show’s experience.

Our guest looks around, reaches instinctively for the thread on her jeans that she realizes with a thrill is no longer there, and blows a quiet breath through pursed lips. She raises her hand from where it was resting against the black satin of her gown, slow and hesitant, but an unnamed excitement is fueling every movement she makes, fueling her entire being. It is common knowledge that whatever strange force animates the _Cirque de Lune_ isn’t of this world, and perhaps the realization has made her braver, at least for this night. 

Black swivels his body around squarely to face her, and his eyes land directly on her own. They are piercing and searching for a moment, and his expression is guarded until he extracts whatever information he needs. After a moment, a wide smile takes residence on his face. 

“You,” he gestures to her. “Come join me on the stage.” 

Our guest stands up and straightens her bodice as intrigued whispers float in waves around her, serving as their own sort of fuel. The gown trails dramatically after her as she all but glides effortlessly up to the stage, the ornate shoes on her feet far more comfortable than they should be given their height. She has never felt so at ease in her clothes, now that she thinks about it, and she has certainly never looked so formal. 

She is nervous as she takes her first steps onto the stage and into the lights, but Black’s eye contact with her own is unwavering. His eyes are the color of storm clouds, ominous and enticing, much like the fog that ushered the circus into their small English town only the night before, she determines. A deep breath is pulled into her lungs as she dares herself not to look away from him. He continues to smile at her easily. He is a handsome man, there is no doubt about that, but she is struck with the doubt that he is even real. Perhaps an enigma. She wonders if he himself is even real, and if there is anybody in the world who truly knows what lies inside of him. Probably not, for that would be far too terrifying of an endeavor.

“When I open the door of this wardrobe,” Black gestures to the seemingly unremarkable piece of furniture across the stage as he takes a couple steps toward her to close the gap, “an image of your worst fear will greet you. You need not tell me what it is, do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so,” she hears her voice say evenly, feeling herself falling into greater calmness as the man’s energy surrounds her.

“It will be completely lifelike, whatever it is. Are you prepared for that?” He asks her as if she’s the only person in the entire room. And she feels like she is.

She nods once and turns to look toward the object on the landing, and then, “It won’t attack me?” Her voice cracks. “Whatever it is?”

He smiles and side steps to land next to her, facing the direction of the wardrobe now too. He tips his head down to speak to her gently, and although she knows the rest of the audience can surely hear him just as clearly, the deep voice sinks into her soul completely and soothes her nerves. “You are perfectly safe. I will open the wardrobe door and it will appear. It may walk out or crawl out or slither out, depending on what it is, or it could simply appear before you and depict a scene that you have always hoped to never encounter during your lifetime. It will feed off of your fear for as long as you can endure it, but once you say the word, or signal to me that you have had enough, I will banish your fear back into the old, wooden confines from whence it came,” he explains. “Are you prepared?” Black asks once more.

She looks at him and takes a long breath. “Okay,” she nods resolutely, perhaps in an effort to make herself believe that this had been the right decision, being this involved in it all.

He mirrors her nod, although his is more genuine she is sure, and stands up straighter next to her. A moment passes by as the anticipation of the crowd reaches new heights — questions about how Black could possibly know her greatest fear and then how it could magically surface in front of them in a completely lifelike form. It sounded too grandiose, too impossible to be real. And yet, they had found that all notions of what is possible and what is not completely erased as soon as they left the world they knew and crossed through the iron gates of the circus.

In the next moment, Black flicks his wand and the cabinet opens.

A vacuum of abject silence follows and swirls inside her head, clearing every thought out except for what is in front of her.

The guest surmises that whatever is brewing within the black recess of the wardrobe doors is worse, much worse, than had thousands of cockroaches poured out of it, heading straight for her.

A chilling silence, before a roar of brutal and brilliant flames erupt in the center of the stage, an inferno of bright orange and flickers of blue and white that fully engulf the structure within the center of the fire. It’s difficult to make out from the audience what is being burned to the ground, but the guest swallows dryly as she watches it happen in front of her in horror.

It’s not real. And yet, it’s the vision of her nightmares in plain sight. And she wonders how it can possibly not be real when it’s happening right in front of her eyes. Recognizable Gothic architecture — the familiar golden structures that are beautiful to behold aesthetically, but beautiful in a symbolic sense as well — consumed by a monstrous fire, charred and glowing red as the fire eats away at it relentlessly with no hope of salvation at all. 

The fire and the ruined buildings appear to grow larger, from a miniature version of the renowned building to one the size of the whole tent. But it is just an illusion, of course, as the scene continues to play out on the stage while nobody in the audience is touched by flames, but that does not quell the fear coursing through the crowd, or muffle the gasps out of their mouths when Big Ben crumbles to the ground first.

Our guest stands frozen on stage as the Houses of Parliament fall next, adrenaline surging through her veins as she feels the impulse to flee out of the tent, out of the gates, and as far away from the eerie fog as she can manage. But she continues to stare at the blaze, frozen in place, mesmerized with terror as she witnesses her greatest fear play out in front of her eyes. 

Our guest swallows hard as the final structures turn into ash and hot tears form in her eyes, and she finds that her body is shaking uncontrollably. She has been in a daze, hypnotized by the fire and the destruction and what it means for her country, but she suddenly snaps out of it and gasps, feeling both relief and panic when clean oxygen is pulled back into her lungs without a hint of ash or smoke. 

“Stop it!” she shrieks, and the intensity of her own voice catches her by surprise. 

Smoke and flames, ash and destruction, one moment — and with a wave of Black’s wand, it is gone. The stage sits pristine and empty again, the wardrobe closed back up. All is still and calm again, as if a fire large enough to take out the Palace of Westminster hadn’t been blazing under the same tent only seconds before. But our guest knows better. The entire audience knows better. And the air suddenly feels colder than it had before.

“Thank you, Esther.” Black’s voice pulls our guest out of her thoughts, the utterance of her name sending another shiver running down her spine. She sends him a quick nod before turning and heading back in the direction of her seat, deciding she would rather not know how exactly he found out her name.

She focuses less on the show and more on catching her breath once she sits back down, waiting for her heart rate to stabilize back to normal. The little girl looks unperturbed by the events, yet concerned for her, and she hands our guest her elephant balloon; she takes it with a small smile, unsure if that — or anything — is capable of making her feel better again, but she is willing to try.

Black the Enchanter continues with the show, but she couldn’t tell you what exactly goes on around her. She thinks that another guest is called up before he moves on to a new trick — his greatest fear is open water, she thinks, but she could be wrong. Her mind cannot let go of the picture on the stage. It is still filled with flashbulb images of monstrous flames eating away the life she knows. The structure that she feels in her heart is already crumbling without any explanation. A force of stability and security left in a pile of ashes.

She is jarred, and somehow it is only a small comfort that the entire scene was an illusion of sorts. The images will stick in her mind, a haunting depiction of something that seems far more possible now than it had before, but eventually her mind settles down and she makes the decision to enjoy the rest of the show. She remembers to hand the balloon back to the little girl. That was a sweet gesture. There was still sweetness in the world, at least.

A trick of levitation is taking place on the stage now. Black had summoned an ornate vase out of one of the wardrobe’s drawers and now it was floating in the air. His wand flicks slightly and a bouquet of flowers bursts through it. His wrist flicks again and the bouquet flies to a small girl in the front row who squeals in delight as the rose petals turn into a bright turquoise blue, ‘ _my favorite!’_ she shrieks.

The sound of shattering glass brings the audience’s focus back to the stage. A guest across the way coughs, and it is nearly unnoticeable, but Black’s head swivels around to locate the culprit. And he does, quickly, as his eyes zone in on golden hair that stands out like a sore thumb in the ocean of black and white. There isn’t much time to notice minute details, but it’s clear at first glance that he isn’t wearing the same uniform of formal attire as everyone else— perhaps he arrived late to the show? — although the jacket to his dark plum suit is tailored impeccably well anyway. Black holds his gaze, long enough for members of the audience to turn their heads curiously in the guest’s direction, but he promptly shifts his focus as soon as that starts. 

Another flick of his wrist, and the pieces of glass fly up into the air. The fragments circle gracefully above the stage, united in various forms before finally coming back together, resembling the original vase identically without a single crack visible. The crowd is hypnotized by the sight, until the vase buds another bouquet of flowers — black lilies this time — and they break out into applause all at once.

Black conjures up a flock of ravens, and they fly into the audience, perching on guests’ shoulders as the tent darkens. A quick glance at her watch informs her that Black has been performing for nearly an hour and a half now. Next she will see the goblins, she thinks vaguely, and purchase one of those decadent hot chocolates that promises to warm her body with both heat and positivity. But for now, something big is about to happen, and she braces herself for the finale.

With a wave of his hand, the ravens fly straight toward the walls of the tents, hundreds of them moving all at once. However, instead of meeting the black and white striped polyester straight on, the fabric and the birds converge on impact and the structure of the tent begins to rise. It keeps rising, then beings constricting and forming into a more spherical shape as the entire room is lifted flush off of the ground. 

The crowd falls into rapturous applause as the realization dawns on them that this tent is lifting skyward, somehow transforming into an impossibly large hot air balloon and set to join the others that have been hovering above the tents indefinitely all evening.

Barriers around the room appear, and people rush out of their seats to look over the edge, our guest right along with them. It’s an illusion, it has to be, for there is no conceivable way a tent on the ground can transform into an hot air balloon that pulls hundreds of people into the sky. And yet, it is real — it’s all real. Everything in the circus is real, a small bubble of true magic that exists in the world, away from the darkness outside. And it’s breathtaking. 

The enormous balloon rises higher than most of the towering tents now, and squeals of delight echo through the space. Arms reach over the edges of the massive basket to point at the giant clock tower in the middle of the circus and the twinkling lights of the tents and kiosks below. One young boy giggles loudly when he realizes that the tent with the acrobats is transparent, and he points down with a mighty thrill as they glide and flip through the air. 

Despite climbing higher and higher, and the circus remaining in clear view beneath them, the world around them is still hidden by layers and layers of fog. It had been a clear night, away from this clearing, but the fog insulates them now, keeps them in this magical world that offers excitement and mystery and inexplicable sights that they will surely never witness again. They soar higher and higher, eventually reaching the only vantage point where the tents below look small and insignificant. 

They remain like that for a good ten minutes or so, the shock of the experience not wearing away in the slightest. When our guest is able to pull her attention away from the views below, she notices that Black still stands in the center of the stage, relaxed and observant, a small smile playing at his lips, and his eyes find hers suddenly. He sends her a single nod, and it’s a bit startling, really, his seemingly omniscient presence, like he is nowhere and everywhere all at once. 

And with the snap of Black’s fingers, not forceful or loud, but heard throughout the arena nevertheless, the balloon is no longer a balloon, and the guests’ feet are rooted back on the ground. The walls of the tent have returned to their normal structure, and the fog remains lingering weightily in the sky, where they no longer reside.

A collective yelp of surprise reverberates throughout the tent and heads turn every which way as the guests attempt to make sense of what has just happened. 

“We were just up in the sky!” our guest hears a young man laugh crazily through the murmur of excitement in the room. “I didn’t even feel us come down!”

“I want to go back up! I want to fly with the acrobats!” a young boy, no older than eight mutters through a face full of tears.

“He’s gone!” another woman proclaimed in awe, her voice somehow magnified above the rest. Hundreds of heads turned back to the stage in unison, and a collective sound of disappointment following quickly. 

And then, eeriness. A silence befalls them without the presence of Black the Enchanter, as if he had been the one variable normalizing the experience in some strange sense. It starts to sink in, everything they have just seen. The illusions that felt far too real to be illusions — the transfigurations, the moving objects, the conjurings, flying in the sky one second and then back on the ground the next. It should all be impossible, and yet, it wasn’t. 

It’s chilling, when they really start to think about they have witnessed, and they look around at each other, the silent question of _you saw what I saw, didn’t you?_ etched onto each individual face. The crowd begins to shuffle out, to find kiosks with chocolates and apples and sweets they have only dreamed of. Maybe they will figure it out eventually; maybe it will make sense one day. 

But for now, they wonder if magic really could exist. After what they just saw, there could be no argument. And even moreso, they wonder about the man who brought it into creation: the man who can read a person’s darkest secret and make things fly and then take it all away with a singular snap of his fingers. They wonder about him. Because he must not actually be human at all.


	3. An Attack in the Light

A crash is heard outside, followed by a frantic knock at the door. He rises immediately from his place behind the mahogany desk and strides across the room in a flash, pulling his wand from where it is holstered inside his left sleeve before wrenching the door open.

Helena stands outside the door of his bedroom chambers, her normally pristine appearance downgraded to absolutely frazzled, chest heaving as the light from her wand bobs in the same rhythm. Her shoulders are wrapped haphazardly in a thick, white shawl that stands out against the colors of early dawn beginning to peek over the tops of the tents, and her blonde hair sticks out at odd angles uncharacteristically.

“What’s wrong?” Black demands, arm still in position, as he steps forward towards her. In their closeness, he discovers the blue eyeshadow smudged underneath her lashes, barely noticeable, but telling all the same, and he scans their surroundings quickly for anything out of the ordinary. 

“Ragnar,” she breathes without much explanation, making it sound far more dire than it might actually be, and his eyes snap to hers. He shoots her an urgent look until she elaborates, preferring to save time by curtailing unnecessary conversation. “He’s alive, but he was attacked in his metalworking tent.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, summoning his coat right then before Helena pulls the shawl more tightly around her and turns swiftly on her heels, and he follows. 

The two figures make quick time moving through the pathways to reach the particular tent that Ragnar has turned into his workshop. The air is still cold and crisp as the golden rays of sunshine lay their first tracks on the newly cleaned, empty walkways around them. An opposite picture of the night before, only a few hours ago, when the space was teeming with people. 

Helena reaches the tent first, pulling the curtain aside and holding it for him to enter behind her. He steps in and freezes as his eyes land on the goblin laying on his back toward the center of the tent, a light grimace twisting the sinewy muscles of his long face, one hand resting on his stomach, which is covered by a waistcoat almost entirely blood soaked. Based on his wounds, Ragnar has been sliced with a knife, or some sort of spell was performed that inflicts the same damage. 

“Call Jonna,” he orders as his eyes shift to survey the rest of the scene in front of him. There was clearly a fight. The metalworking table is in disarray and there are glasses smashed on the floor — and one broken shard with blood all over it. 

“She’s on her way,” Helena answers quickly as she kneels down in front of the goblin, and she transfigures a small pebble into a pillow to lay under his head. “He’s unconscious right now but he is breathing.” 

Black is glad to hear it, and now that he knows that Ragnar is safe, his eyes shift to the other pressing matter sitting in the corner of the tent. Bound in thick ropes with tape stuck over his mouth. 

“Where is his wand?” he asks emotionlessly as he gestured to the man in the corner who is watching him with wide eyes. The man has been detained, a solid spell it appears, but Black isn’t taking any chances when it comes to this. 

“I’ve got it,” Leo confirms, holding it up for him to see. 

“Give it to me,” he orders, and Leo hands it over immediately. He mutters a binding spell in the man’s direction for good measure before turning back to the contortionist. “It was just him who broke in?”

“No, there was one other,” Leo says hoarsely, then shakes his head with a sigh, “got away before I could stun him.”

Black blinks. “He just ran out?” he clarifies with a gesture he couldn't suppress, “How does that happen?”

“I was a little preoccupied, Sirius,” Leo chides as he notions between the unconscious bloody goblin on the floor and the bound man in the corner.

Black nods and raises his hand to scrub at his forehead. “Right,” Black sighs and takes a couple more seconds to clear his mind, realizing that the frustration he was feeling toward Leo was misplaced, and it was self-directed. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen within the confines of the gate, with his crew, and he went through great lengths to make sure that they didn’t — calculations about how to properly ward the various sites the circus traveled to were performed thoroughly and routinely. And yet here they were. “Thanks Leo,” he looks back up at the shorter man with a nod and then turns to Helena, who is still tending to Ragnar on the ground. “Helena, wait here for Jonna to arrive with the healing potions, make sure Ragnar is taken care of, and then meet me in my work tent with the Veriterserum.”

She tears her attention away from the goblin to look up at him. A quick nod is all that Black needs before he mutters a spell under his breath. He turns sharply and heads out of the tent, the unknown bound man floating after him. 

It’s been a long while since this has happened, not since the early days of the circus when Black was still working to create the appropriate wards to keep both muggles and uninvited magic folk out of the gates. But things in Europe were getting more chaotic now, and it was only growing worse as the days went on and conditions deteriorated. He chides himself for a couple of seconds for apparently allowing the security charms to become too predictable this month. 

But he wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

Ragnar would be okay. And now they had one of the men who had broken through detained. So perhaps this wasn’t the terrible development that he had initially assumed it to be, he considered. Perhaps it would deliver some of the information he’s been searching for. 

Black summons a stool from the corner of the room and sits down on it, leaning forward as he makes hard eye contact with the unknown man, whose bald head is shining under the hard fluorescent light of Black’s wand. The man squints up at him and manages to keep his eyes glued to Black’s. He didn’t look scared, exactly, but there’s something there, and he’s going to find out what.

Black’s eyebrows raise a micron. “We could start now if you’d like,” he says evenly.

The man doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t blink, the only two things he can control in this sad — sad for him — situation, Black reckons. 

Black lets another moment pass before taking a sharp intake of breath and resting his chin in one palm. “You’re rather fucked, aren’t you?” He observes, “We have your wand. We have Veritaserum, a very potent batch. You may have broken in somehow, but we are prepared for such occurrences. And you’re certainly not going anywhere before I get all of the information out of you that I want.” Black leans forward further and drops his hand, tapping his wand against it now. “So how about you start off by telling me your name.”

“Fuck off,” the man finally says.

“No? Alright,” Black shrugs as he ran his fingers up and down his wand thoughtfully, only thinking for a couple of seconds before a flick of his wrist brings a deep slice across the man’s cheek. “It’s rather pointless to resist don’t you think? Your clan doesn’t abide by the old wizarding laws. You cannot possibly think that we choose to either, especially when you set out to kill a member of my troupe.”

“He’s a fucking goblin—”, the unnamed man spits out before he is hit by another invisible but longer slice to the other side of his face, an alarmed shriek cutting off his train of words as a streaks of red are left on his face and blood drips from his chin and onto the floor. 

Black holds his gaze and smiles. He leans back and twirls his wand a couple of times, shooting a few sparks out of his wand just for the hell of it, wonderfully at ease — as he always is within the confines of these gates — until the rustling of curtains behind him lets him know that Helena has arrived. 

Another small flick of his wrist, and the man’s chin lurches forward suddenly and mouth opens wide, his entire body freezing in the position. His eyes are suspicious now, maybe even panicked, shifting between the two of them and then to the large vial in Helena’s hand.

Black waves toward her. “Go ahead.”

“Three drops?” She confirms, stepping right up.

“That’s fine,” he responds haphazardly. “He doesn’t seem like much of a mastermind, does he?”

Helena cocks her head a bit as she studies the man in front of her, his eyeballs swiveling to meet hers, but no other movement possible. “Three drops it is,” she concludes before kneeling down and administering the dose into the man’s agape mouth. The liquid sputters at the back of his protesting throat as she makes her way back into the far corner of the tent, in the shadows.

Black waves his hand and the man’s body unfreezes. He sits back into the chair he is tied to, but he doesn’t look any more comfortable. Black flashes the man another smile, and it’s predatory this time.

“What is your name?” He asks.

“Anyamin Carrow,” the man complies.

Black’s brows raise at the identification, out of recognition more than surprise. The next question was obvious, but he wanted the confirmation anyway. “Are you with the Oculi?”

“Yes,” he acquiesces.

Black nods once. “Where are you based?”

“In London mostly. But we are moving to areas with high muggle populations as well,” he divulges, “Paris. Berlin. Rome. And we are working to expand wherever we can.”

Black follows up, “How did you break through the gates?”

“I paid for a ticket last night. Viktor and I concealed ourselves once the sun began to rise.”

Black sends a pointed look over to Helena at this bit of newly disclosed information. Once she nods back at him in acknowledgement, he turns his focus back to the detained man who he is interrogating. “Why didn’t you go after Ragnar during the night?”

“I wanted it to be discreet. There are too many crowds around at night. Even with magic, I wouldn’t be able to get away from that many eyes.”

“What did you come in here for?” Black asks.

“Goblins,” he admits plainly. “Magical creatures are very valuable these days.”

Black’s brows furrow, but only for a millisecond before his face is stoic again. “What is your interest in goblins?”

“Draught of the Unblemished,” he answers.

Black’s eyebrows furrow again.“What is the ‘Draught of the Unblemished?”

“A potion,” he says.

“I assumed as much, now what does it do?” Black clarifies, gesturing for the man to get on with it. 

“It causes the consumer to forget something, anything they want. They can choose to forget painful memories, a bad relationship, a traumatic event forever. It becomes erased from their past.”

Black continues, “And the Oculi is manufacturing this potion?”

“Yes,” the man confirms.

“Why?” Black asks.

“We sell it to muggles. It is marketed as a drug with permanent positive effects. No hangover, no after effects, neither short-term nor long-term physical harm. Just…,” the man says, “sunshine.”

“Sunshine,” Black repeats, and he sends another minute nod to Helena before turning his gaze back to Carrow. “Is it popular?”

“Amongst muggles?” He clarifies with a smirk and a guttural laugh that makes Black want to wring his neck, “They are fucking crazy for it.”

“The demand is high?” Black asks through mildly gritted teeth.

“Yes,” he says, “We can’t manage to keep up with it.”

“What do you need goblins for?” Black inquires.

“Goblin spleens are a key ingredient for the potion,” the man explains.

Black exhales a loud breath out of his nose, but his face remains stoic. “Where have you hunted down goblins before?”

“There were a few clans hiding around Europe after the Ministry fell,” he says. “We tracked them into the Alps, slaughtered a couple of bands of them with magic.”

Black’s jaw worked for a moment. “And then your supply ran out?” He asked evenly.

“Yes, our supply is not keeping up with the demand,” he reiterated.

“Have the clans moved out of the mountains then?” Black asks.

“Many have left Europe. Many were killed. They are more difficult to track down now,” Carrow details.

“Why did you break through our gates?” Black asks, he knows the answer, but he needs to understand just how much the man knows about the workings of the _Cirque de Lune_.

“We know that you house goblins,” he says.

“Were you looking for anything else?” Black tacks on.

“No, just goblins,” he confirms.

Black raises his eyebrows. “Do you know who I am?”

“Sirius Black.”

Black purses his lips for a brief moment before resting his hands on his knees and turning behind him. A wordless conversation occurs between him and Helena before he taps his foot _one, two, three,_ times before throwing a powerful ‘ _Obliviate’_ in the direction of Carrow. 

“Helena,” Black says as he stands up from the stool, “make sure that his wand is destroyed.”

“Done,” she answers simply, and then a beat later, pulling one end of the shawl tightly around her again. “What are you going to do with him?”

“He won’t remember any of this, I doubt he will even remember his ties to the Oculi when he regains consciousness,” Black reasons as a hand reaches behind his head and pulls firmly at a handful of hair. He exhales loudly. “But I cannot say for certain that they won’t find each other again.”

“What’s the other option then?”

“A strong Imperius Curse, although I am far from fond of that idea,” he admits with a strong rub of his face, his other hand gripping his wand far too tightly. “This space is meant for those who want to be here, who _deserve_ to be here.”

She nods. “They’ll know where he is, once he doesn’t come back, since he didn’t come on this little mission on his own.”

Black wrinkles his nose in thought, giving his head a good quick shake before coming out of it with contemplative eyes and an intrigued voice. “But do they even care? Are they really sending out their best men on these sorts of errands?” He forces a laugh out through his nose and shoots Helena another powerful shake of his head. “No. They aren’t.”

“You don’t think that puts us in danger?”

Black shrugs. “We already have a target on our back from housing goblins. It doesn’t mean we back down though,” he says, more to himself than the woman he is having a conversation with. He steps forward and paces forward before nodding his head emphatically. “Put him under the Imperius Curse,” he says definitively, without an ounce of hesitation once the decision is made. “He broke into our tents with the intent to kill Ragnar, and if he had succeeded, he would have been back again for the rest of them.”

“Good,” she says with emphasis. “I can find a place for him. You won’t even know that he is here.”

“Hopefully it is just temporary, until we can find a better thing to do about it. I don’t want this becoming a new practice of ours.”

“It won’t be, because it isn’t going to happen again, now that we know what they are up to.”

“No… you’re right.”

She mutters an incantation under her breath, and in the next moment, Carrow and the chair he is sitting against are both levitated back up into the air. “Let me get him situated in his own space, work out the proper spell, and I’ll be back when I’m done.”

“Great,” he agrees with a curt nod. She turns and walks out of the tent, holding the curtain open as Carrow floats behind her.

Ragnar will be alright, he’s already had confirmation of that. But this event has led to a new conundrum, and one that he should have been more prepared for before it happened. He paces the length of the tent, and then he paces back again, his mind reeling with potential solutions that may or may not ultimately solve this new problem of his. 

“So they are poaching goblins now,” Helena interrupts his train of thoughts after some unknowable amount of time has passed. She is standing back inside of the tent, and the sureness of her demeanor tells Black that she has taken care of Carrow, he doesn’t need to ask.

“Goblins now, yes. Who knows what else they are after. It would be daft to think that this is the only activity they are focused on. As long as they have a market, they will continue to expand, both geographically and in terms of whatever products they are moving.” Black taps his wand against his hand in thought. “We know that a lot of magical creatures became essentially extinct in Europe after the war.”

Helena gives a hum. “Do you think we are more on their radar now?”

“Perhaps,” Black answers, “it’s hard to say though. The Oculi has left us alone for the most part, and we certainly are not on a mission to derail whatever destructive shit they are up to — they have figured that out by now. We both have historically stayed out of each others’ way, we are similar—”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Helena butts in before Black can finish his thought. 

Black nods at the point, and then elaborates. “They aren’t like the Death Eaters, at least from what I gathered. They aren’t looking to destroy the muggle population or rule by magical force. What I mean is that they are looking to survive in muggle Europe, like we are, to find a way to. However, our methods are what are in stark contrast.”

“They are drugging the muggle population,” Helena responds dryly. “And hunting down goblins like they are animals for it.” 

“Yes. Sunshine,” Black says pensively. “It’s quite popular isn’t it?”

“From what I’ve heard, yes,” Helena says, brow furrowing. “I think I should take a deeper dive into the muggle community to find out some more information. But in the meantime, what are we going to do about it?”

“About Sunshine?” Black clarifies, brows ticking up in contrast to hers.

“Yes,” Helena says with a firm nod.

“We aren’t going to do anything about Sunshine,” he says simply.

“No?” Helena responds with a bit of reluctance.

“We are going to keep focusing on the circus, on offering a refuge for any wizard or goblin or creature looking for it in Europe right now. We have become rather good at it, don’t you think?” Black reasons. “And if we go looking for an all-out war against the Oculi, then we are all fucked. You know that.”

“Yes,” Helena sighs.

“If they come to us, we need to be ready, and we will be because the magic we have set up is unmatched. But my priority is to protect our community,” Black goes on. “To survive. I am not interested in being a vigilante this time around, I’m interested in mitigating the damage.”

Helena nods in agreement again, but this time it seems genuine. “You’re right. What should we do about the break-in? Do we need to create a new ward that senses anybody with magic to keep them out?”

“Adding another layer would help, but I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to risk keeping anybody away who may need refuge here,” Black answers. “Let’s add a magic detector at the entrance, as opposed to a full on blockade; that way we are at least aware if a wizard has come into the park, and then we can identify who he is and make a judgement call off of that. Additionally, the clean-up spell that is used upon sunrise needs to add in some extra precautions. I’m not quite sure how it didn’t pick up on their presence in this park — likely some advanced concealment charm on their part — but we need to remedy that immediately, there must be a way to pick up on charms that were not created by somebody within the troupe,” he reasons thoughtfully, his mind already going down various pathways about how to solve this problem. 

“So those are our two action items,” Black concludes after the two of them fall silent for a long while. 

“I’m on it,” Helena responds, and if she is overwhelmed by the new task at hand, she does not show it in the least. She never does.

He nods, and there is a deep appreciation in it that goes unsaid, but not unheard. “As am I.”


	4. The Brightest Flame

Like clockwork, the new moon appears in the night sky, ushering in a familiar heavy fog that promises an unforgettable night for a brand new town.

It’s a routine by now. The circus arrives one night, and then the crowds appear the next — awestruck as they watch magic unfold before their eyes, sights they have never before witnessed in their lives, like a dream, but far too real to ever be forgotten. 

Whispers of fortune tellers and knife-throwers dominate the air on that particularly chilly December night. It was supposed to snow, the townsfolk had felt it in the air that day, but within the gates, it is noticeably warmer without a snowflake in sight.

Black varies the show each night that he performs, not by much admittedly, but enough to keep himself entertained. His show is a draw, he is well aware of that, and he can feel the effect his presence has. It is a known fact that the tent under which he performs has consistently grown to accommodate the spectators who flock to it. 

Like moths to a flame. And his is the brightest flame of all. 

The show starts off well. Outfitting the audience in opulence is always a sure way to pull them in quickly and make them question everything they have ever suspected about magic. An easy trick that he has learned over time is the perfect way to open with astonishment. 

Black enjoys his time on the stage, the attention and the wonderment, the pure, frenzied joy that is so rare to see anywhere else these days. Not to mention the increasing ticket sales that bring a new stability to him and his crew in this new world that so few have figured out how to navigate since the Ministry fell only years ago.

And then something goes wrong for a split second. It’s minor, sure, but this isn’t the first time, and that is not something Black is going to overlook again. 

Once could be written off as a mistake. Twice is intentional.

It doesn’t take much to correct the fact that the wardrobe door does not unlock the first time he mutters _alohomora_ under his breath, for Black knows that it is a basic shielding charm placed over the wardrobe which is easy to dispel, and he does, before opening the wardrobe door successfully on his second try. The boggart appears in the form of a massive plane crash — the fears get more morbid every month it seems, and it won’t be long before Black has to cut the trick from his act all together. After a collective gasp at the fiery remains on stage, Black takes a moment to look into the crowd where he knows the man will be found.

And there he is. In the same seat and wearing clothing of his own again, easy to spot and holding Black’s gaze without an ounce of trepidation. Another wizard, no doubt, but Black had already figured that out the month before during the man’s first visit — there was no other explanation for his levitation charm to have suddenly broken while the vase had been floating in the air. He isn’t dangerous, not if he made it through the sensors upon arrival, but he is there for a reason.

Black does not recognize him beyond that one single incident, but the man clearly knows him. He was here to get Black’s attention, and this was an effective, albeit interesting, way of going about it. 

The show wraps up without any further unexpected surprises, and when Black disapparates at the end, he does not arrive back in his work chambers as he usually does. 

One second, he’s standing outside of the tent. 

Two seconds, he waves a hand and his performance attire transforms into simple muggle clothing, perhaps more sophisticated than average, but common enough for him to fit in effortlessly. Gray coat, hair pulled back and tied now at the nape of his neck. Inconspicuous.

Three seconds, he waits. The man will not be difficult to identify. When magic has become this rare, it also becomes extremely detectable. A distinct buzzing feel, and this man’s buzzes with peculiar feel of earthiness; like an open field in autumn, free and easy, but orderly all the same.

People begin to file out, hundreds of them falling into line and then separating into all different directions in a flurry of chatter as they make plans for the rest of the evening. He leans against the tent and waits.

The man walks out from behind the curtain, one of the last to do so, and if he is looking for Black he shows no sign of it. He takes a sharp right turn as he exits and gets about ten meters away before walking straight into another man who seems to appear out of nowhere.

“Hello,” Black says directly.

The man looks back at him without a trace of unease and settles back onto his heels. “Hello, Sirius.”

Black raises his eyebrows, but only barely. “Follow me?” he requests, but his tone hints that it is more of a command.

The man seems to pick up on it, and he laughs through his nose. He dusts a hand down his dark green, nearly black, waistcoat and looks back up at Black. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” he answers without feeling, glad and not surprised the man has the brainpower to recognize that, “but I’m assuming from your little tricks that talking to me has been the goal all along. So you don’t need to put on any sort of charade to the contrary.”

The man smiles, seems genuinely amused. “Fair enough,” he offers, and that is all it takes for him to follow as Black leads the way to the tent where his office chambers are located. 

For how crowded the paths are this early in the night, the two men move quickly on foot. Black maneuvers a swift left through the slightly less populous path, and the distinguished sound of a single violin floats towards them as soon as the new direction is chosen. It becomes louder as they continue along, and the notes produce something slow and macabre, strings screeching out an eerie unrecognizable rhythm, more of a cluster of atonal noises than an actual tune.

As the sound becomes louder, the violin emerges in front of the two men. A deep mahogany, striking in its pristine design, it hovers in the air, bow gliding back and forth across the tightly held strings as they are pulled down and manipulated by some invisible and incredibly dexterous hand. An invisible hand connected to an entirely invisible body, or perhaps it is a different mechanism altogether. 

Black passes it by swiftly, but pauses to glance back with a face reading underwhelmed. He mutters something under his breath and the bow freezes for a split second before starting up again, quicker now, the sweeping vibrato far more palpable as the strings produce an upbeat melody instead — still strange in its isolation, and yet familiar to all of those who hear it, even though they cannot place why that is and where they have heard it before.

Pleased with the modification, Black strides forward once more, shoulders set back and his confidence just as apparent as during his performances on stage. It threatens to give his identity away to the hundreds of circus-goers he passes, the lack of costume merely an insignificant detail for how discernable his demeanor is.

But nobody recognizes him, too distracted by the sensory overload surrounding them with every new sight, breath, and smell that the circus sends their way. The two men arrive at the tent within minutes, and when Black pulls the entrance curtain back, the other walks right in without hesitation.

“Do you have a name?” Black asks as soon as he follows inside, shooting a quick silencing charm over his shoulder followed by another to conceal the entrance behind them. The guest has made his way a few paces ahead to stand near the desk now, with his back turned, wasting no time at all in taking in the interior of the tent around him. 

His eyes are roaming about, becoming particularly interested in a set of books that are dark crimson with gold inlay, an encyclopedia of the rarest and most dangerous magical creatures, that Black keeps around for who knows why at this point. Rare, magical things have all but died out. His expression is vaguely amused when he answers simply, “Remus Lupin.”

“Lupin,” Black echoes as the man turns to face him squarely again, and then a beat later. “We have never met before.”

“That is correct,” Lupin confirms.

“What are you doing here?” Black asks without any further ado. 

Lupin turns away from the desk as Black transfigures a houseplant on the floor into a dark green armchair, before he gestures for Lupin to sit. Lupin does. He all but blends into the fabric, nothing but a floating blond head and a displaced set of hands relaxed on the arm rests.

“Not much magic in the area anymore is there?” Lupin responds with a question of his own, his accent coming through clearer now. Welsh, maybe. 

Black humors him. “There is not,” he answers as he strides over to the desk and pulls out the more austere wooden chair situated in front of it for himself. The ancient grandfather clock in the corner ticks a steady rhythm as Black drags the the chair around, he’ll admit, louder than necessary. 

“It is hard to resist experiencing so much of it again,” Lupin admits with a grim smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Especially when it’s so,” his fingers flutter against the velvet material underneath his hands, “theatrical,” he settles on. 

Black lifts his eyes from the displaced hand and raises his eyebrows. “We do what we can.”

“I see that,” Lupin affirms pensively. “It is an interesting concept, ushering magic into the muggle world.”

“Not completely,” Black counters. “I wouldn’t say we are ‘ushering magic’ into their world. It still isn’t real to them. It’s just some grand illusion that they already determined wasn’t real long before this circus came along.”

“A prior concept you are capitalizing on then,” Lupin corrects himself without hesitation.

“Yes, I suppose. For both their benefit and ours,” Black answers, and the man stays silent, watching him expectantly. He sighs and decides they might as well get comfortable, then. A few words under his breath, then the sound of a drawer opening and glass against crystal and liquid pouring, and Lupin tips his head in thanks as a glass of something amber makes its way into his hand.

“They are treated to the most magnificent and unbelievable show they have ever seen — given a joyful respite from whatever is going on outside of these gates, something to marvel at — and we can keep on surviving in the country we love while not surrendering our way of life. Value for value,” Black says, swirling the rye whiskey in his own glass before taking a drink. One of the rare muggle vices he had no trouble adopting.

“So you are content with all of this, then? With making a livelihood from muggles and using their currency to survive?” Lupin asks.

“If you are trying to point out a problem,” Black replies, “I am failing to see it.”

“Are you interested in seeing magic return to Europe?” Lupin inquires directly, and the clock in the corner makes a whirring sound.

Black leans back minutely. “Ah, I see.”

“What?” Lupin returns, chin ticking to the side.

“You think that what we are doing here isn’t big enough. That we aren’t doing enough,” Black clarifies. 

Lupin remains silent.

He takes a theatrical breath and continues on, “You think that we should be dedicating our resources and our efforts to rebuilding everything that was lost, even if it is for nothing.” It all makes sense now, and he has a difficult time refraining from expounding on it now that he has figured it out. “You’re rather idealistic, aren’t you?”

Lupin makes a vague gesture. “That’s not what I would call myself,” he counters.

“What would you prefer, then?” Black asks with exaggerated warmth.

Lupin focuses on a point past his shoulder. “Determined,” he says finally, returning his gaze to Black. He takes a drink before adding, “with an undying appreciation for the magical community that was destroyed.”

Black reigns in his immediate reaction. “You think that will bring it back?” He chooses artfully instead.

Lupin’s expression is resolute. “It’s certainly not going to reemerge if _nobody_ thinks it is possible,” he answers.

Black takes a long drink, and so does Lupin. Cheers to that. “There are magical groups who happen to like what Europe turned into once the Ministry fell,” Black comments.

Lupin nods, as apparently this was something they could both agree clearly on. “Are you one of them?” Lupin asks.

A slight breath of amusement escapes his lips and Lupin watches him as he reaches into the breast pocket of his coat. “No,” Black replies, lifting a cigarette to balance between his lips, and he offers one to Lupin. “And I have no interest in making any enemies these days. Not when there are so few of us left,” he continues as two delicate streams of smoke begin to rise from their hands.

Lupin is quiet. The entire tent they are under is eerily quiet for how loud it must be outside. “I see,” he eventually settles on.

“Where did you go to school?” Black asks, because it is his turn to ask some questions.

“I had private tutors,” Lupin answers nonchalantly. Or evasively, Black suspects.

He takes a long haul of his cigarette as he considers this information. “What did you do after that?” Black asks through a cloud of smoke.

“Before the war?” And it’s almost like he has to really think about it. “I was a shopkeeper at a bookstore in Diagon Alley,” he answers.

Bookkeeper. Interesting, he thinks as the cloud dissipates, that would explain the interest in Black’s collection of obscure tomes. “And now?” 

“Now?” Lupin clarifies.

“How do you earn a living now? When you aren’t attending my show and attempting to throw me off?” Black offers. “You’re dressed well, you seem somewhat well-to-do as far as muggle society goes, your mannerisms do not stand out amongst a crowd of non-magics. You can clearly fend for yourself. So how are you making that happen when so few others have been able to assimilate so successfully?”

Lupin looks amused and takes a long haul of his own before flicking the ash into the air and watching it disappear. “I work in a muggle law office,” he answers after a moment.

Black huffs out a laugh. “How did you manage that?” he asks, but he already knows. And Lupin doesn’t answer because he knows that Black knows too. 

Few wizards can get by in the muggle world without their magic. 

Lupin slowly uncrosses and crosses his legs. “It was only to get the job,” he explains in a few words.

Black figures he looks amused, like he is fighting an even wider grin from taking up residence on his face, which he is. He cuts Lupin off before he can elaborate any further. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Which seems to be the difference between you and me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lupin counters, appearing put off except for the flash of genuine curiosity in his eyes and his lips’ twisted look of restraint.

“I’m conducting the life that I see fit, taking care of myself and those around me,” Black begins to explain, and the grin plastered on his face seems to grow as he does. “And here you sit, after making your way into my space, disrupting my show, and insist that I justify my choices to you.”

Lupin is clearly delighted, and his smile grows to the size of Black’s, all teeth gleaming behind an unfurling burst of smoke. “I am merely intrigued by it, is all,” he assures with a flippant gesture of his cigarette hand. “You cannot blame me for wanting to gather more information about the mysterious circus that has been making its way through Europe.”

“I’m sure,” Black responds, using what must be more emphasis than Lupin has become accustomed to during this brief introductory conversation of theirs, because his eyebrow lifts.

“Especially when its…” Lupin pauses, his eyes moving up to the ceiling in thought, “director? No. Organizer? No, that’s not it either.” He pauses again and breathes out a laugh. “When its _ringleader_ — that’s the correct title for you, isn’t it,” Lupin levels with him playfully, “is such an enigma. I had to come and meet you for myself.”

Black lets out a bark of sharp, deep laughter, punctuated by his heel hitting the floor as he leans slightly forward. “And now that you have?”

“I don’t know yet. I think I’m missing something,” Lupin articulates after a moment. When he looks back up, Black exhales another long stream of smoke as he drapes back again, just watching him intently.

He finally blinks. “A bookkeeper you say?”

Lupin coughs in surprise, breaking his smile for one brief second, but pulling it back the moment after. And Black doesn’t miss any of it. “Amongst other things,” Lupin answers vaguely.

“Then I suppose that I am missing something too,” Black surmises with a swift raise of his eyebrows and an easy succession of taps from his foot.

Silence lingers for a minute and glasses empty one after the other. “Well then,” Black begins to conclude as he rises from his seat and stamps out his half-finished cigarette. “Can I expect that there won’t be any more glitches in my routine?”

Lupin takes the cue and rises from his seat as well, and he does the same. “For now,” he decides, and the amber hue of his eyes is bright. “The air balloon is impressive, by the way. I haven’t been able to figure out how you do it yet.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Black muses, and a smirk finds its way onto his face as his eyes linger on the man in front of him for a couple moments longer than intended.

Lupin sends him a nod before heading for the exit of the tent. If he had an objective set before speaking with Black, Black isn’t sure what it could have been. Curiosity, perhaps, like he had said. But that seems far too simple.

“The world is dark for us now,” Black asserts, bringing Lupin to a pause before he reaches the curtain. “If you ever need a safe place to turn to, don’t hesitate to show up. Anytime. Apparate outside of our gates. We will know if you are coming.”

Lupin hesitates, but looks back at Black a long moment later. “That won’t be necessary. But thank you,” he responds before striding out of the tent and disappearing into the crowd of people outside.


	5. Curiosities

Lupin walks into the muggle establishment. A restaurant of some variety, but that fact is irrelevant. It is dark and rainy outside, a typical dreary London afternoon, and Lupin wears a pair of dark-washed jeans and the raincoat he picked up from some muggle department store months ago. Long gone are the days of wizarding robes and Diagon Alley, even the currency is gone and he has finally gotten the hang of paper pounds and ten and twenty pence pieces. 

But he has become accustomed to this way of life — it’s nothing new anymore, and he is actually surprised by how quickly it became second nature to him. So he agreed to meet at this restaurant. And now he stands at the entrance as he scans the area for the man he is looking for.

It doesn’t take long before Lupin spots him, sitting in one of the corner tables of the small place. 

“Hello Marcel,” Lupin greets him casually, pulling out the chair and sitting down. 

“Hello Remus,” Marcel nods in return. “I ordered your usual.”

“Great,” he answers, reaching out for the steaming cup of tea that is already waiting on the table for him. A warming charm, no doubt, and Lupin is grateful for it as he takes his first drink for it is colder outside than he had expected. “Thank you for coming all this way again.”

“You know I enjoy these trips to London, even if it is a pain to set up a portkey these days. The trips help remind me of what we are working towards,” he explains with a nonchalant wave of his hand. Lupin gives a light nod of acknowledgement before Marcel continues a beat later. “How are you then?”

“I’m fine,” Lupin responds without much emphasis. “I’m lucky, given the alternative.”

“Your usual response,” Marcel hums good-naturedly. “That job treating you well?” he asks.

A huff of breath falls from Lupin’s nose. “It’s fine. A change of pace, being surrounded by muggles and muggle law—”

“I would imagine,” Marcel agrees with some humor.

“—but like I said, I’m lucky. It pays the bills, and I can’t deny that it is interesting to study the material. It may even be useful in the future if everything goes as planned. And I’m able to afford more than most and magic can spruce up anything after that, of course,” Lupin continues. He lifts his mug to his lips before offering, “How is it going in America then?”

Marcel nods thoughtfully. “It’s different, I notice more differences the longer that I’m there. Techniques and even pronunciations vary a bit, the magic even has a different feel to it, which I didn’t know was possible. It feels newer, a little more untamed. More exploratory if that makes any sense at all. Ilvermorny is flourishing though.”

“Oh?” Lupin says.

“Yes, when I first started teaching there, there was a hesitance in the air, a fear of continuing in the realm of magical education, I suppose I could call it. Which was probably not uncommon around the world, but I was surprised to find that it extended all the way out to North America,” Marcel explains. “Drop-outs were at a high the year that I started, teachers were in high demand because many had left, which is how I got hired, of course. But this year, enrollment reached the same levels as before the Great Wizarding War began.”

“That’s great,” Lupin remarks with surprise, and his face brightens up a bit along the way. “Do you think that trend applies on an international level?”

“I don’t have any solid evidence on the subject, but based on conversations with past colleagues who have relocated across the world, it seems to be,” Marcel supplies.

There is a brief lull in their conversation as the waiter appears and sets two plates down on the table, and each man takes a pause as they begin to eat their respective sandwiches. 

“So how did it go?” Marcel asks.

Lupin sets his sandwich down and grabs for the napkin on the right side of the table, dabbing at the corners of his mouth before answering, “It was interesting.”

“I’m sure. I can’t deny that I’ve been curious about it myself,” Marcel offers.

“It’s worth visiting if you have the time,” Lupin suggests.

Marcel hums as he finishes chewing. “Where is it currently?”

“A small town in Normandy,” Lupin explains. “I’ve only really gone to Black’s performance, but there is a lot to see. I reckon you could attend every night for a week and still not see everything that they put on. It feels endless.”

“Wow,” Marcel says with wide eyes.

Lupin nods, considering something. Eventually he says, “It’s an odd way to see magic again, as a spectator of a show. It reminds me just how much everything has changed since the War. It’s a spectacle now, it’s no longer a way of life.” 

“It is in America—“ Marcel begins.

“I know,” Lupin laments.

“And I hear that the magical community in Eastern Asia is thriving. South America too,” Marcel says with gravity, “You have other options, Remus. You know you are always welcome at Ilvermorny.”

Lupin sends him a look, because that isn’t the point at all. “You know that’s not the solution I’m looking for. Whatever I feel about it all is irrelevant. I thought you felt the same way.”

He nods with newfound energy. “I do, I do. You’re right. You know that I am ready to move back here as soon as things start coming together, as soon as there is a viable school of witchcraft and wizardry established again, whether if it is a rebuilt Hogwarts or something new altogether. Or perhaps I can return sooner even, if the economy can get reestablished, if it becomes safe to use magic again. But even until then, I am at your disposal for whatever I can help you with, even though I am an ocean away.”

“Yes, thank you,” Lupin says.

“You’re welcome,” Marcel offers. “So,” he says, lifting his glass to his lips, “tell me more about it.”

Lupin nods easily, finding that he is eager to describe his experience to another person. “It is built with some powerful magic — you can actually feel it buzzing against your skin even before you enter the gates. Like Diagon Alley or Hogwarts used to be, but wilder. Perhaps that is what happens when it all becomes concentrated in one relatively small space, or maybe it is the signature of the people who have created it,” Lupin describes, resting his elbows against the tabletop and interlacing his fingers underneath his chin in thought. “The setup is beautiful. It is eerie and frightening but welcoming at the same time, like it pulls you in and makes _you_ feel like you are wanted there. It’s remarkable. I understand the appeal it has for muggles, hell it’s even appealing for me.”

“Me too, for multiple reasons,” Marcel tacks on with intrigue.

“Right,” Lupin let out a laugh, more out of acknowledgement than humor. “A lot of talented witches and wizards in there, that much was apparent from the start.”

“Did you talk to him?” He cuts to the chase, leaning forward.

“I did,” Lupin says, his face suddenly etched with something akin to discouragement. “He does not seem so receptive. A strong personality too, set in his beliefs, proud of what he has created.”

Marcel responds with a sound that indicates that he is not surprised by this observation. “I never had him as a student while I was at Hogwarts, so I apologize that I could not provide any more concrete information about him,” Marcel laments.

Lupin shakes off the words. “You’ve already done a lot for us, there is nothing to apologize for. Your contacts are why I have been successful in recruiting the wizards and witches that we do have.”

Marcel beckons him on. “What did he say then?”

“He was rather tight-lipped,” Lupin goes on, “I was too, to be fair. It was like he was reiterating explanations he had prepared long ago, like a politician reusing a perfectly curated response. But I wanted to get a feel for him more than anything else. Feel out what his motives are, why he is using his magic to create something as ridiculous as a circus.”

“And?” Marcel asks, eyebrows raised.

Lupin makes a weighing gesture with his shoulders. “He appears to be happy with it all, actually. Content. Part of his own kind of mission, really. Sees it as a haven for the magic folk still left in Europe who need protection.”

“Isn’t that what we wish to do?” Marcel throws out.

“Exactly,” Lupin confirms. “At a far more stable and permanent level. Like how it used to be.”

Marcel looks optimistic. “Perhaps he can be convinced then?”

Lupin nods, taking a moment to think before fully responding. “He appeared to be dedicated to his concept, whatever it is, I still don’t fully understand it. It seems as if he doesn’t see a point of expanding outside of his own circle, thinks that it will be more trouble than it is worth. But he wasn’t put off by my presence, and I think that could be significant.”

“You didn’t get a sense of foul play then?” Marcel inquires.

“That he is working with the Oculi you mean?” Lupin clarifies.

Marcel nods. “That, or something darker, yes,”

Lupin shakes his head. “I don’t get that sense. I can’t say how he conducts his business is lawful, in the sense of what wizarding laws used to be, or that he adheres to whatever muggle legalities are involved in running a traveling business. I’m not quite sure how ethical the practices are, but he certainly isn’t using the circus as a guise for any sort of dark magic.”

“This is very positive news,” Marcel confirms heartily, bringing his hands down to settle on the table. “He will be a valuable ally.”

Lupin hesitates, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re more optimistic than I am.”

Marcel shrugs and lets out a chuckle. “I think you need to push further. You’re better at this than you think you are. And if he didn’t seem too put off by the conversation, then maybe you should take that as an invitation to try again.”

Lupin gives him that. He reaches for his cut of tea and his hand fiddles with the handle of it as the wheels in his mind start to turn in a whole new direction. “What did you hear about him while you were at Hogwarts?” he asks pointedly.

“Quite a sad story actually,” Marcel answers. “He was best friends with James Potter, and eventually Lily Potter once they started dating.”

“Fuck,” he says, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment as he wonders how he hasn’t heard this bit of information before. “Was he the godfather as well then?”

“He was,” Marcel confirms sadly, and a silence falls between the two of them. Not much more needs to be said and Lupin’s mind is reeling now. 

A loud crash from the kitchen in the back, glass likely, pulls Lupin back out of his head. “His name does sound familiar now. I had heard of him before, but it didn’t actually register until this moment.”

Marcel gives a morose grunt. “He lost a lot during the war. The rest of the Blacks essentially disowned him while he was at Hogwarts, that was common knowledge since he came from such a renowned pureblood family. He created his own family once he arrived at Hogwarts — the place was probably the best thing to ever happen to him. And then he was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and well, the only confirmed survivor to come out of the War. So he really lost everything from any vantage point.”

“He must want to see it rebuilt then,” Lupin comments sadly, but with more hope now that he understands the man better, “the places that meant so much to him.”

“I would think so,” Marcel agrees tentatively. “A talented wizard too, that was never up for debate. Always had a problem with authority, I never heard the end of it from a couple of the other professors, thought he could do a vast majority of things better than the way that he was being taught. And honestly, he was probably right based on how you describe his magic now. He is naturally brilliant, with an innovative mind.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lupin says with a small breath of laughter. “But it is getting more dangerous out here,” Lupin says with a sigh. “I can see it just from the muggles I work with.”

“Oh?” Marcel encourages.

“It’s all more chaotic for them,” Lupin explains, “A lot of unexplained disappearances in the news. Everything feels so dark, and like it is only getting darker. They can feel it in the air. One high profile disappearance is one thing, but when it starts becoming a pattern? People all around are becoming fearful. The nightlife in London is essentially dead now, they turn in earlier, thinking that will help, but odd things keep happening.”

“Why would muggles be disappearing?” Marcel asks, alarmed.

“I don’t know yet, but so many things have become untraceable that it feels like it has dark magic written all over it. Or dark intentions at the very least. To steal their property, perhaps?” Lupin opines.

Marcel’s face darkens. “Do you think it’s bigger than that?”

“It’s hard to say. I think the Oculi operates under the radar,” Lupin continues. “When they keep it small like that, they can thrive without raising suspicion from other magical authorities. When one chips away at something slowly over time, it is already gone by the time that the right people notice.”

Marcel sighs, looking forlorn before taking a long thoughtful swig of coffee. “That’s true.”

“Which is why we need to _start rebuilding_ ,” Lupin reiterates, “Before this all goes too far, before Europe is put completely under their control without them even knowing that it is happening. We have a duty to protect them, and to keep magic separate and protected like it has always been.”

“You’re right,” Marcel agrees. “It’s a far bigger crisis than many people realize. And I hope you are at least cognizant of the fact that it is going to be very dangerous for you.”

Lupin stares at the wall in front of him for a long moment, but he doesn’t really see it in front of him. “I don’t know what else to do,” he sighs. “But yes, I am quite aware of that fact.”

Marcel waits a long moment before nodding slowly. “You’re going to need Black.”

Lupin sighs out a sad laugh and turns his mug about in a circle. “As I surmised,” he says resignedly.

“He’s powerful,” Marcel goes on. “And he has a way about him. People are drawn to him.”

“I see that too,” Lupin agrees.

“It’s worth another shot,” Marcel finishes.

“I know,” Lupin confirms with a grimace before going back to eating his lunch. “I know.”

A long silence follows. It is starting to get darker out; night is falling and along with it, the number of people passing by the restaurant is dwindling.

“Do you ever feel defeated by it all?” Marcel breaks the silence minutes later, and Lupin is mostly done for he pushes his plate ahead of him before answering.

“All the time,” he says, “but if I don’t do it, then nobody else will.”


	6. The Eyes of the Forest

Our guest roams from tent to tent, wandering down pathways that loop over each other, seemingly endless in every direction. She knows that it does not matter where she decides to go, for she will be met with a spectacular act on whichever path she follows. Enough time has been spent in the circus for her to realize that no choice will lead to disappointment. Thus, she makes an easy turn to her left without wasting another second.

The curving pathway leads her away from the courtyard, and the further she walks, the darker the atmosphere around her becomes. The air darkens into an invisible mystery dotted with an array of small twinkling lights that resemble fireflies in an open forest.

A contortionist performs on a platform to her right, just outside of a tent marked as _The Labyrinth,_ and she wears a glimmering white costume that glows like the moon if it weren’t for the fog obscuring its luminosity. She twists and bends her body into impossible shapes, a bright white figure glowing against the darkness, moving like pulled taffy to a rhythm inside of her head. Yet through her movements, onlookers pick up on it too, a slow and romantic tune, drawn out and sinister. It is a hypnotic performance, and the crowd gathering around her has difficulty looking away.

But eventually our guest does, for the pull of the Labyrinth is stronger — magnetic — and she enters the tent without any other thought in her mind.

She is greeted by a long hallway, and despite the crowds she had seen entering the tent before her, it is empty. And eerily silent, completely hushed as she walks down the hallway that is surrounded on both sides by a wall of trees, more gray than green for how overcast and misty it is inside, and the smell of moss and dew fills her nostrils with every breath that she takes. The thousands of trees tower further up into the distance than our guest can see — absurd for how much smaller she knows the tent to be — but there is a sweeping staircase in the distance ahead and our guest focuses her attention towards reaching it, her labored breathing the only sound perceptible amongst the surrounding scenery reaching as far as our guest can see.

When she reaches the stairway, she finds that it leads both up and down. After hesitating for a moment, she decides to proceed downward, resting a hand on the black iron handrail as she takes step after step down the spiral that leads her to yet another dark unknown. Our guest is alone and terrified, but she cannot turn back now. Not when there is still so much to see.

The room at the bottom is circular and bare, all but for the innumerable doors lined up against the walls, each waiting to be selected and opened into whatever whimsical world awaits inside. The doors are identical, and our guest chooses one at random, taking two brave steps inside before closing it behind her. 

_White. Blindingly White._

The brightness is overwhelming, and our guest’s eyes need time to adjust to the bright white snow that she finds herself besieged by. Her body tingles for twenty seconds as it adjusts to the piercing cold, and she feels as though she has been transported far north of where she knows herself to actually be. The light jacket she is wearing suddenly feels heavier, but nothing about it appears to have changed when she looks down to see if anything is different. And yet she is no longer shivering; she is perfectly warm and comfortable while wandering through the pearly aftermath of a beautiful blizzard.

Bare Aspen trees envelope her from every direction as she navigates through the snow, her ill-equipped feet remaining warm by a power that must be no less than magic. Where some branches have fallen off have left behind dark markings in the trunks that resemble eyes, thousands of Aspen eyes that follow our guest as she trudges onward through fresh white powder.

Suddenly, a sound like a woman singing breaks through the silence, an old tune if our guest had to guess, and one that is full of longing. A lullaby perchance, but she cannot place it. Perhaps it is only the wind whistling through the bare trees as she keeps moving, searching for the next door, the next room, the next way out. Woman or wind, the longer it goes on, the harder it is to tell.

Our guest feels the warmth of a hand on her neck, can hear the light breathing of another living body approaching slowly, slowly, slowly. But when she turns around, there is nobody there, only a trapdoor beneath her feet.


	7. Tête-à-Tête

The circus is a ghost town of tents stretching into the distance. The thick curtain of fog remains intact as always, silent protection from the sun, but everything else appears abandoned in the light of day.

A distinct popping sound, and then the appearance of a man out of thin air. 

He takes a couple of seconds to straighten himself up before taking a direct path towards the gates. The closer he gets the shabbier the tents appear, and he reckons part of their magic must come from the darkness offered by the night sky, but he does not hesitate as he approaches. This is not his first time there, afterall, but it is hard to deny that the atmosphere is different. 

The ring of formidable trees no longer surround the circumference. Instead, there is a steep drop off behind the gates, followed by the vast navy blue expanse of the ocean. It is hard to make out beyond the unnaturally thick fog, but the ominous sounds of waves crashing against rocks down below are a giveaway to the wildness that lies beyond. And it is sinister, just like the ring of trees had been, how the landscape is so perfectly situated around the gates, silently keeping watch.

A woman appears behind wrought iron as soon as he is in eyeshot of gate. She is not dressed in circus garb, as she will be that night, he is sure, but instead wears a long black trenchcoat with high-heeled boots. The sleekness of her look is accentuated by pristinely straight blonde hair that lays elegantly on her shoulders. 

“Hello, Mr. Lupin.” Her voice is airy and light, but stoic. 

He tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Hello.”

“Mr. Black is looking forward to speaking with you again,” she continues as she turns down one of the pathways, not looking back at Lupin to ensure that he follows. But he does.

“What is your name?” he asks. 

“Helena,” she answers a beat later. He notices small details as they walk. That the park is immaculately clean. That the tents are made of a fine, almost silken material that seems to reflect the atmosphere around them, and as they pass the first tent, he can see the sheen of the striped fabric pick up on the brown material of his sweater for a moment before it fades back into dull gray — a charm that explains why the tents glisten with the intensity of starlight when evening rolls around, Lupin thinks. That it is still warm inside the gates, as it was when he was there last. Lupin sheds the heavy jacket that he is wearing, finding that a sweater is enough, even during this time of year.

“Where are you from?” Lupin asks, draping his coat over his arm, having been unable to pin the origin of her accent.

“I was living in wizarding Berlin before the war,” she says.

Lupin nods. He wonders just how many wizards and witches are employed at the _Cirque de Lune_ , and where they all came from. All over Europe, he imagines. 

They walk in silence for a short while longer, until they reach a tent that Helena stops outside of. Lupin waits back, but she simply raises a hand with severely pointed and lacquered gold nails to gesture him inside. 

“He is expecting you,” she explains.

“Thank you,” he says before pushing through the curtains and entering the confines of the tent. 

It is the same setup as the last time that Lupin had been alone with Black, but like the rest of the setting, the formal mysterious air is somewhat dulled in the day time, replaced by a casualness that Lupin did not expect to find when he stepped inside the gates again. 

“Mr. Lupin,” Black greets him easily. This time, there is more furniture set up in the tent. A red velvet couch with ornate Victorian detailing carved into the wood, with a matching armchair and a coffee table in the middle of the room. A teapot and two cups sit on it.

Lupin gestures at the room at large. “You knew I was coming,” he observes without preamble.

Black looks humored and closes a stack of papers in the drawer of his desk, to get to later. “We have sensors all around the vicinity; they can detect any magic in the area,” he explains fairly unconvincingly as he stands. “And I also had the feeling I would see you again.”

Lupin huffs an impressed sound as he makes his way inside. “They must be very exact sensors,” he says as he approaches the couch and drapes his coat across the arm of it, watching Black expectantly.

Black hums a noncommittal sound. “We also have a seer who is quite talented,” Black admits then, walking over to take a seat at the armchair. 

Lupin lets out a laugh. “Ah, that explains it,” he affirms, “That’s some impressive magic you have working for you. A reliable seer is hard to find.”

Black looks up at him for a while as he reaches for his cup of tea. “Indeed,” he agrees, bringing the cup up to his mouth and blowing on it gently. “Please sit,” he motions to the couch before tilting his head back and taking a quick swig of the tea.

“Thank you,” Lupin responds, holding Black’s gaze that has lingered on his face. Lupin sits, and Black pours tea into the second cup.

“A third visit?” Black inquires, handing him the cup, and his voice is laced with genuine curiosity, but there is also some satisfaction there too. 

“I suppose I couldn’t stay away,” Lupin fires back with equal haughtiness, unperturbed by the fact that it is indeed his third visit — at least that Black knows of. He takes a sip of tea, and apparently it is to his liking, for he takes a subsequent drink just a moment later. 

“It’s not a bother,” Black confirms with raised eyebrows. There is intrigue on his face, and it clearly communicates that Lupin’s presence is not at all an imposition. 

“You have such a rare display of magic here. It is so potent and I think it is being wasted,” Lupin comes right out with it.

Black laughs, but it doesn’t sound like surprise. More like the laugh of someone who was just proven right. “Is that so?”

Lupin elaborates, “You know that it is. There is so much capability inside these gates, Sirius. I have barely scraped the surface, and it is already clear that this is the highest concentration of magic in Europe right now. And it’s complex — I don’t know if I have ever experienced such a complex display of magic before.”

“You haven’t,” Black confirms, lifting his cup to his lips. “We are leaps and bounds beyond what the bloody Ministry was ever capable of. Far more efficient and innovative without needless administrative rules that are bound to attract the most power-hungry and corrupt wizards in the region.”

“Yes,” Lupin says slowly, and then a beat later, “and therefore, I can’t sit idly by and not express that I think what you are doing is wrong,” he volleys back.

Black coughs mildly on his tea, and Lupin is brought immense satisfaction from the small hint that he has been caught surprised. “You’re rather audacious,” he comments, brow furrowed as he regains use of his windpipe.

“Not usually,” Lupin says, crossing his legs. The man isn’t wrong in this case, after all.

“I fail to understand how anything I have done since the war ended has been _wrong_ ,” Black says, punctuated by the delicate sound of china against china as he sets the cup down.

“You could be building so much more,” Lupin urges.

“Or, alternatively, getting myself and everybody around me, who I have vowed to protect, destroyed,” Black offers instead with a grandiose wave of his hand.

Lupin taps his fingers against the porcelain cup balanced on his knee. “Will you give me a tour of it all?”

Black's eyebrows rise. “Right now?” He asks.

“Yes. I would love to know exactly how much investment has been put in here, the depth of magic being used—“ Lupin starts.

“And why should I do that?” Black interrupts.

“Because we are on the same side,” Lupin observes.

Black squints at him as a moment passes. “Are we? What side is that then? If I took a moment to think about it, I’m sure I would settle on the conclusion that the only ‘side’ I am on is my own.”

Lupin trains his gaze on Black. “We want the magical community to somehow survive after being completely decimated. We want the freedom to use magic in our everyday lives and be able to earn a living while remaining safe in the country we grew up in,” he explains. “And we don’t want or need to harm the muggles that live around us in order to flourish.”

Black leans forward to drain the rest of his tea, using the extra moment to think. “We may need to clarify bits of that, but alright,” he says, china against china again. “I can show you around at least. I don’t see any harm in that.”

“Thank you,” Lupin offers, depositing his own cup back on the saucer now.

Black hums in acknowledgement and stands up a beat later, and Lupin follows his lead as he exits the tent. 

“It’s so different during the day,” Lupin comments after a few steps.

Black turns his head to the other man and replies, “Part of its charm, I hope?”

“I think so, yes,” Lupin laughs.

“We do it on purpose, of course. The contrast adds to the mystery, right? How can something that looks so lackluster and desolate during the day suddenly turn into a scene so intriguing and breathtaking at night? As if it is dead, but springs to life as soon as night takes over,” Black explains, putting on a theatrical tone to his voice at the end.

Lupin hums, part acknowledgment, part amusement. “Well, it’s beautiful,” he affirms.

“I’m glad you think so,” Black says, and a smile is playing at the corner of his mouth. He stops next to a tent. Lupin looks up at it and reads _Fortune Teller_ above the entrance. “This is where our seer works — it’s basic divination as I am sure that you have surmised. Lenore is very talented. She has the sight, but even mere tea leaves and palm readings are enough to keep muggles coming back to see her.”

“Revealing bits of information about them does the trick?” Lupin comments.

“Apparently so,” Black tosses back easily, as if he isn’t the one making the rules. And Lupin actually believes that.

“What does Lenore see for the future of magic?” Lupin asks, and even he is not certain whether it is genuine or just asked for the purpose of pressing Black’s buttons.

Black clears his throat. “I’m afraid you’ll have to arrange a time to speak with her to find out,” he answers evenly, clearly uninterested in delving more deeply into that topic or eliciting any significant reaction.

Lupin laughs through his nose, accompanied by an eye roll that Black ignores. Black continues forward towards the next tent on their left. _Lion Tamer_ is scrawled above the entrance.

“Frederick works with lions and fire, one of our more popular and, hm, ferocious attractions,” Black explains with faux drama, and it sounds like a harrowing scene.

Lupin nods, thinking for a moment. “Stumbled upon a couple of lion animagi did you?”

“Luckily enough, yes,” Black answers without missing a beat, rapping a knuckle against the metal pole holding up the sign, “A set of twins from Greece.”

Lupin tilts his head back in amusement now. “You all really learned how to get creative with what you have, didn’t you?” 

Black laughs, pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket. “We keep ourselves entertained, I’ll grant you,” he shrugs one shoulder as the end lights up, “among the hundreds of thousands of visitors too,“ he tacks on.

“Of course,” Lupin allows, because that’s a fact that cannot be denied after observing the intrigue of the guests for any time at all.

Black continues down the path, stopping next to bring attention to the contortionists and the knife throwers before lingering in front of _The Space Room_ , where he explains that visitors lose their balance as soon as they enter, given the ‘illusion’ that gravity has been taken away. They navigate through a seemingly endless expanse of stars, with other galaxies and space matter lightyears away. 

“It gives them the feeling of weightlessness, both physically and mentally,” Black explains with wide sweeping gesture, and the smoke from his cigarette creates a steady consistent stream up to the fog above them. “And from the feedback reported to me, those who experience it recommend it vehemently to others, and yet nobody has the desire to experience it more than once.”

“Life-affirming, perhaps,” Lupin suggests.

“Yes, I think that is the case,” Black confirms with a knowing grin.

“You may be liable of inflicting a sort of existential crisis on these folks one of these days,” Lupin cautions.

“Or a gratitude for life,” Black offers, and he pauses his tour to lean back against one of the posts belonging to a cotton candy kiosk. “As we face our mortality, we find what power we still have.”

Lupin coughs. The words are poignant, and they begin to sink in, in front of a cotton candy kiosk of all places. “W-well,” he musters before another long pause, “well that’s certainly a way to look at it. And an interesting takeaway coming from you I think.”

“Is it?” Black asks.

“You have so much power, and you choose to use it for a show,” Lupin reiterates. “An impressive show, I will never deny you that compliment. But it isn’t _real.”_

Black shakes his head minutely. “That’s what you refuse to understand, Mr. Lupin. The show is unimportant in the grand scheme of things, the show is a means to an end — it is not the end.”

“What is the end?” Lupin asks.

“Survival, as we have discussed before,” Black says.

“Who says this is the only way to survive?” Lupin challenges.

“It is our _chosen_ way to survive,” Black explains with more zeal. “It is the choice that we have the right to make, the level of risk that we are willing to take for ourselves. It is a setup that makes this new life we’ve have to adjust to worth it, that gives us a reason to keep moving forward. And I do not understand why you choose to let it bother you so much. Why you fight against it so hard when it brings absolutely no harm to you at all.”

Lupin focuses his gaze upward, not ignoring Black’s words, but not giving them the weight that Black seems to believe that they hold either. He looks up at the opaque fog above him that seems to transport him into a different world every time he enters inside of it. 

He looks around at the black and white tents, dull at this time of day, at this brilliant little world that Black as created. Eventually until his eyes settle on the tent with the words _Goblin Metalworks_ hanging above it.

“Goblins? In a circus? It’s rather degrading isn’t it?” Lupin goes on, steering the conversation into new territory altogether.

“I don’t think so,” Black replies easily. “They don’t think so. And I believe that their opinion is the one that matters.”

“What happens?” Lupin challenges further. “Do the guests come in and make a big deal about them? That they look different? Humans aren’t even supposed to know that goblins even bloody exist,” Lupin says, and this is one topic that pushes him past exasperation.

“The ones who want to interact with the guests do so,” Black responds without bother. “The ones who do not, work behind the scenes. They have a lot to offer and the choice is theirs. The circus takes no cut of the products that they sell; however, we are happy to enchant anything they would like, although they are typically weary of that and keep more to themselves.”

“It shouldn’t be like that,” Lupin concludes with a brash wave of his hand, as if Black’s explanation of the situation made no difference at all.

Black’s gaze follows his hand before he takes a sharp intake of breath and posits, “What else would you propose to the goblins who do not want to leave Europe then? Who may not be afforded the same freedoms in other countries or who are unwilling to leave their families behind who they have not heard from for years, but who they still hold hope that they will see again if they just stay within their home country? How would you suggest that they earn money in the muggle community?”

Lupin shakes his head. “They should be back in a position to work within the magical community, where they are well-regarded. Whether that is back to running the wizarding banking sector or starting up a new venture completely. But they shouldn’t be some sort of attraction in a zoo,” he urges.

“So what should they do until the wizarding economy is rebuilt? It will take decades, you realize? To fully come back into formation again with a well established bank and flourishing businesses,” Black counters mercilessly.

A few seconds pass in silence as Lupin looks out. “I don’t have an answer for that yet,” he says, then trains his eyes on Black’s face again, which is expressionless.

“No. You wouldn’t,” he confirms fairly dryly. “Not everything is so idealistic, Mr. Lupin. This is the world that we live in now. You may not agree with our choices, but it’s a way for us to maintain our magical identities while earning the means to survive in a predominantly muggle world. I’ve provided them a way to stay in their home country, safe from poachers, which are, if you haven’t heard, running rampant in every big city now.”

“I have heard,” Lupin confirms.

“And it won’t just be goblins,” Black goes on. The muscles in his jaw are working for a moment before he adds, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, “They will find a reason to hunt every single one of us. We will be protected in here, I will make sure of that, everybody here will. But it will probably get worse before it gets better, and I can’t help but think that you already know this.”

Lupin nods resolutely. “Which is why we need to be working towards a _sound solution_. We need to work towards building a community with _authority_ and _laws_. And yes, I may not have all of the kinks of it ironed out yet, I won’t deny that, but I know the long term vision that I have is the best one for _everybody._ It’s an incredible opportunity, we can make it better than it ever was before. We can make sure that history does not repeat itself, Sirius.”

A huff of laughter and smoke escapes his lips, and the sound cuts through the air. “It’s a long way off at best.”

“It is possible, though,” Lupin reiterates with gravity.

“Whether or not that is true,” Black starts, eyes locked on Lupin, “it is a nice _idea_.”

“I’d like to make it more,” Lupin says, choosing to ignore the condescension lacing the other man’s tone, “but I need your help. I realize that I don’t have all of the expertise to make it all happen on my own, which is why we need to work together.”

Black laughs again. Louder now, more put off the longer the conversation continues. “Why me?”

Lupin crosses his arms, taking in the scenery around him and listening to the crash of waves in the background. “You’re well known for your talent. Everybody with whom I have worked has sung your praises. And you’re a leader, that much is obvious.”

Black hums with amusement. “A _ringleader_ , right?” he goads, but when Lupin does not respond he transforms his tone into one that is more serious. “I think you underestimate how dangerous this is,” Black observes darkly, but his posture is more relaxed than it had been the entire conversation. “When so many wizards rather prefer the lack of authority these days.”

“But you’re not one of them,” Lupin surmises.

Black snorts, tosses his hair back. “Of course not.”

“We’ve established that already.” Lupin regains his train of thought and sends him a curious look. “Then what is the problem?” 

Black offers easily, as if the answer is obvious, “Once you challenge the environment they are thriving in, you will become an enemy.”

Lupin tilts his head to survey the anomaly of a man in front of him. “Help me wrap my head around this then,” Lupin starts. “What is the alternative? Letting them continue to destroy Europe? Drug the population with a substance that dulls their ability to fight back? As if they could even fight back to begin with?”

“The alternative, Mr. Lupin, is survival,” Black states with finality. “A survival that offers some interesting experiences along the way. And the resources to create a fortress that will keep us protected from whatever comes in the future.” 

Lupin huffs delicately, skeptically. “Life should be more than merely surviving. It can be more than that again, you know.”

Black cocks his head to the side, throwing his cigarette onto the ground before stomping it out with his heel. “Not for me.”

Lupin clears his throat, and things slow down for him in that moment. He hesitates for a brief second, and then pushes past it as he reaches a hand forward to grab one of Black’s wrists, squeezing gently. “Yes, even for you,” he says, and lets go not a second later because as bold as he has been in this conversation, the touch feels bolder.

Black smiles easily, but his eyes flash as they stay put on Lupin’s face. “Where do you draw the line between pragmatism and idealism?” Black presses as he leans forward slightly, tone a bit vexed. “Are you going to look down on us for doing what we can to live the best that we can? You make survival sound unimportant, but I assure you, when you are fighting for it, it becomes the most important thing in the world.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Lupin answers with a calculated slowness, “but I do think you are selling yourself short.”

Black shrugs it off, but it does appear to take a little effort. “And I think you are thinking too big,” he counters.

Lupin laughs, a real laugh this time, and it pulls a comparable smile onto Black’s face. Lupin pauses for a moment when he sees it and clears his throat. “I just hope that you’ll think about it,” he concludes.

Black raises his eyebrows and narrows his eyes for a moment in feigned apology. “Please don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “I enjoy my way of life now. I have already sacrificed too much and I have no desire to spend any more of my time pining for the past.”

Lupin breathes an amused sound. “Do you think I live in the past?”

“Yes,” Black says simply, blinking once in a way that punctuates the response resolutely.

Lupin hums with renewed intrigue. “That’s unfortunate. I see it as looking towards the future,” he responds with a pointed look. “Which is far better than being afraid of it, don’t you think?”

Black attempts to stifle a laugh, and it almost sounds as if he is impressed. He takes a swift look around the desolate tents of black and white before zoning back in on the man standing casually in front of him. “After what we have seen, fear isn’t even on my radar anymore. Dark magic, unforgivable curses, death. I am numb to it all by now.”

“If you say so,” Lupin goes along.

Black is silent for a moment and looks entertained. “What else would you like to know then?”

“I want to know what it will take for you to work with me,” Lupin says simply, and Black sucks in a breath through his teeth as he continues. “I know you have picked up on that by now.”

“That, sir, is a lost cause,” he laughs dryly. “One that you apparently need spelled out for you in the most simple of terms.”

“I don’t think it is,” Lupin calls him out.

“Once you finally understand the purpose that this circus serves, I think you’ll understand my perspective,” Black supplies.

Lupin doesn’t argue, but offers a prediction instead. “It’s going to get dull, you know, after a couple more years.”

“Contrary to what you believe, I am not doing it for the excitement. Although I won’t deny that it is an added bonus,” Black says.

Lupin gives a curt sound of interest and sends a pointed look directly at Black. “You’re meant for greater things, Sirius,” he maintains.

Black raises his eyebrows and his eyes flash with agitation again, but his mouth remains closed for a long moment. “Is that all, then?” he finally asks.

“I suppose it is,” Lupin concludes with equal stoicism.

Black starts, “I will walk you to the gates so that you may apparate back to wherever you are—”

“London,” Lupin informs him without much emphasis. “And no need. I know the way out.”

Black seems to think that was funny. “Yes, you would by now,” he says.

“Indeed,” Lupin offers loosely, pulling the collar of his coat back up around his neck. “Goodbye Mr. Black, I hope this isn’t the last time that I see you.”

“I have a feeling it won’t be,” Black predicts.

Lupin pauses for a second before giving Black a tight nod, and the curvature of his mouth grows minutely at the response. He turns away from the man who is just as commanding off stage as he is on, and makes his way out of the park.


	8. Darkness and Stars

Lupin’s eyebrows shoot up higher onto his forehead, the intrigue and hope in his face discernable as the comprehension slowly sinks in. “You think it can be rebuilt?” he echoes.

The other man, whose hair was likely once completely black but now is littered with broad paint strokes of grey, smiles and sends a soft nod across the table. “Of course it can. It has been before, it can be built again,” he answers simply, his calmness in stark contrast to Lupin’s surprise. “And it will actually be easier this time.”

“This is great news, Dmytro,” Lupin breathes out, an uncharacteristically real smile growing on his face. Those are rare these days.

“The architecture was physically destroyed, yes. If you can even get through the brick wall, you’ll find that it’s all still rubble,” Dmytro explains, gesturing with his hands all along the way. “A ghost town of rocks and ashes and sad memories of a thriving city. But the magical infrastructure is still there.”

Lupin sucks in a breath of air. “And you’re up for it?” he asks with a hint of apprehension.

“If the price is right? Absolutely,” Dmytro practically beams. “It’s a dream venture.”

“I think so too — it’s such a relief to hear you say that,” Lupin can’t help but admit, allowing himself the moment of excitement before returning back to the logistics, voice more even-tempered again once he does. “And I am working with some American and Asian investors, I have some contacts in each region who put me in touch with people interested in reconstructing the wizarding economy. Thankfully, it hasn’t been the most difficult pitch given how well-regarded wizarding London used to be. Funding is not an issue.”

Dmytro’s eyes grow as wide as his smile at this news. “Wow, you have made progress since the last time we talked,” he observes, breaking off a corner of the blueberry scone in front of him and popping it into his mouth.

Lupin takes a long swig of his tea, as if to punctuate the importance of the other man’s statement. “I have,” he answers with the utmost satisfaction.

“Well then let’s do it,” Dmytro throws out with no hesitation. “I’d love to be the man to reconstruct Diagon Alley — if that is what you are going to call it, that is,” he adds with an open-handed gesture in Lupin’s direction.

“Oh, well of course,” Lupin responds quickly, as a reflex, but feels the need to backtrack a bit. “If it is even up to me. I’m merely the orchestrator of it all.”

Dmytro’s shoulders shake with a bit of laughter. “I think it’s more than that,” he insists, and his hand moves back to the scone, picking at it thoughtfully without bringing another bite up to his mouth. 

“We will see, but I think that our investors may have other ideas,” Lupin’s responds off-handedly, noting how dark it has already started to become outside because that is suddenly far more interesting than having the focus transferred onto himself. “But no matter, I am thrilled to have you on board, though. Officially.”

He nods. “Will the proper wards be in place once development begins?”

“Yes, the most secure,” Lupin affirms, confidently, because if anything will be crucial to their success, it’s that.

“And have you started recruited prospective business owners?” Dmytro asks.

“I am in the early stages. And to be transparent, it has been difficult to discover wizards who are interested enough to commit to physically returning,” Lupin admits. “They have lost faith in wizarding London, but restructuring Diagon Alley will be a good first step to earning their confidence back.”

The man shoots him a look, and there is deep respect in it, before he pushes his chair back from the table and stands up. “Keep me updated?” he asks.

Lupin stands up as well. “Of course. I will continue to use muggle email for the time being—”

“It’s faster than owls anyway,” he offers, sliding his coat on.

Lupin laughs and grabs for his own. “It is. Something to keep in mind when we start rebuilding. Nothing wrong with merging their great inventions with our magic, not when I want to make it even better than it used to be.”

“Good for confidentiality right now too,” Dmytro tacks on, fastening buttons.

“Yes. And I think that being discreet about this,” Lupin says, gesturing between the two of them, “until we have the proper protections, is the smartest thing that we can do.”

Dmytro sighs, because that’s the reality, but he is also full of energy. “We can make it happen.”

Lupin nods with conviction. “We have to. Time will not slow down and wait for us as the rest of them march forward. Even if it isn’t ideal, the sooner we start, the easier it will be.”

Lupin leaves the cafe with him, and he and Dmytro say their final farewells before they break off in different directions. The hour had grown late since he’d first entered the cafe. The streetlamps must have turned on when dusk settled in, and Lupin reflects on how familiar this city has become to him since the end of the war — the muggle part of London, the part he had barely known before the war. It isn’t safe these days — as a wizard, he has a deeper insight into that than anybody — but it is a hell of a lot better than he had worried it would be before the fall of Voldemort and everything else he took along with him on the way down.

He walks along the main road, thinking it better to apparate back to his flat than to take the 45 minute ride on the tube from this part of town. Music is playing from outside of a pub, the sound of an accordian of all things floating through the door, and Lupin notes that it is more crowded than he would expect at this time of day. That is a good sign; perhaps things are not as bad in this gloomy city as he assumes them to be. Maybe it has been all in his head the entire time.

He turns right into an empty alleyway and pulls his wand out of his sleeve, giving a quick look around one last time to ensure that there are no muggles within his sight. As he is about to lean into the swift turn that would deposit him outside of his flat, a cold chill jolts through him, then what feels like a sheath of glass encasing his bones as his body freezes in place.

He cannot move.

He hears footsteps approaching from behind his rooted body. 

There are voices accompanying the steps, echoing off the brick walls that shield him and them from sight.

“Are you sure he’s a wizard?” the first voice asks, a nasally female voice, and if Lupin could feel anything at all, he would feel the shiver running up his spine.

“I saw him pull out a wand — he is holding it in his right hand,” the second voice assures the first, abrasive and guttural.

“Ah, fantastic! You are right, Eric,” she replies with satisfaction. “Think he is anybody of consequence?”

“He’s dressed well, seems well to-do enough. Let’s get him back to Croydon and see if he can be useful to us once we figure out who he is,” the deeper voice instructs.

“Bind him,” the woman demands, and Lupin can feel his stomach drop through the ground. It won’t take long for them to find out, for them to find a use for him. One dose or Verisaserum and it all will have been for nothing. 

But the incantation of _incarcerous_ is cut short before the ropes are fully conjured, cut off by another spell, but not one that Lupin has heard uttered since the war, and by a new voice altogether. 

_Crucio_ rings through the alleyway, and Lupin mentally braces himself for the indescribable level of pain he unfortunately became familiar with years ago. He braces himself until he hears the second voice screaming, and it is so palpable that even Lupin can feel his agony for a split second. A resounding _pop_ lets him know that somebody has disapparated, the woman, he presumes, but the unforgivable curse remains strong if the unbroken screaming is any indication at all. 

The same voice that uttered _crucio_ now repeats the binding spell, but successfully this time, and then _stupefy._ By this point, the man must be unconscious, and a heavy thud sounds against the pavement right next to him, followed by what feels like the man’s limp hand splaying against Lupin’s ankle. Lupin remains frozen in place, and the wave of relief he feels from the debilitation of his attackers is replaced by the anxiety of not knowing who he is dealing with now. 

Another _pop_ and the weight of the hand is gone suddenly, and Lupin can feel that he is all alone again, which is far from comforting when he still is unable to move a muscle. But the time alone is short-lived, for ten seconds later, another _pop_ reverberates against the bricks. Lupin is freed from the effects of the stunning spell a moment later, and before he has a chance to even think about turning, he feels an unmistakable energy signature, white-hot in its purity and as viscerally mysterious as walking along a pitch-black corridor without a candle, and it suddenly dawns on him who the caster of the Cruciatus Curse is. 

“Alone in London without any shielding charm in place? What were you thinking?” Black asks, and the demanding tenor of his voice pierces through the tension left in the others’ wake, the last remnants of fear, and pulls a steadying breath from Lupin’s chest.

“I got too complacent,” Lupin mutters, far more frazzled than usual, and his speech is hoarse as he regains composure. He doesn’t turn around yet, but takes a moment to reflexively feel his own arms and his face and come back into control of his body. But Black grabs him by the wrist gruffly, in the middle of it all, and pulls him closer. They disapparate as one a second later. 

“They would have killed you,” Black says sternly, his hands planted roughly on Lupin’s shoulders as the man worked to regain his balance. Lupin looks up to meet eyes that hold their usual intensity, but are darker on this occasion, like a storm brewing.

Lupin looks away first, stepping out of Black’s grasp as he takes in the scene around them. They are in a quaint town laid with cobblestones, no longer in London, but still in England it seems, given the signs hanging on the businesses advertising fine chocolates to his left and cheap pints to his right. “How did you know to find me?” he asks.

Then Black starts walking, and Lupin isn’t sure where he is headed; he isn’t sure of anything at all, but he follows nevertheless. 

“Helena and I set up a tracking system for our crew, for the times when they leave the protection of the gates,” Black answers rather casually, pulling his leather jacket tighter against his body, because it is cold this time of night, and it is not often that he’s outside the warmth of the gates anymore. 

“And how did I get pulled into this?” Lupin demands, the adrenaline still surging through his veins so fiercely that he is unsure what to do with it. “Without my permission, I might add.”

Black stops walking and lets out a hearty laugh, long black hair falling about his shoulders as he tips his head back. It is a less kind sound than Lupin is used to hearing from him. Black returns his gaze to Lupin and raises his eyebrows. “You should be thanking me right now,” he says.

Lupin laughs once in response, but it’s genuine, in stark contrast to Black’s. Because yes, the man had a point. “Thank you,” he says with true gratitude. Black holds his eye contact for a couple of seconds before he nods, in acceptance apparently. Black turns, begins walking again, and Lupin follows with a head full of questions. “How does it work then? These… detectors that you have?”

“I took a small sample of your DNA while you were visiting, the glass that you drank from was enough to do it. Leo was able to merge a couple of spells to create a tracking system, and then outfitted it with various sensors, including detection of combative magic and dark magic. He is sort of our…,” Black explains, and pauses a moment, “our Head of Wizarding Security I suppose we can call it.”

Lupin lets that information sink in, and he is quiet for a block. Black doesn’t seem to mind the silence, and Lupin notes how strangely well Black fits in as he strides through this little town, which feels odd, but is somehow not surprising when Lupin truly thinks about it. “How long does it last for?” he clarifies. 

Their attention is diverted when a rotund squirrel scurries across their path and up into one of the trees lining the street. The normalcy of it is almost humorous, at least when compared to what was transpiring not five minutes earlier. “The detection spell? About a year before we need a newer sample,” Black answers then. 

Lupin nods. “Sounds like something similar to what the Ministry used to regulate certain spells, but more tied to a specific person. Probably because they would have had privacy suits up the arse if they ever went that far,” Lupin says, and Black hums. He looks over at Black and tacks on, “Another incredibly invasive spell you’ve created, how charming.”

Black barks out a laugh that seems to echo around the street. It is not crowded around them, but they certainly aren’t alone, and Lupin notices that the burst of noise turns a couple of heads. But it feels safer here somehow, and neither man seems to mind. 

“That’s right,” Black shoots him a smile, his eyes lingering on Lupin’s before turning his gaze back in front of him. “Leo worked with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before the war.”

“Convenient, we’ll say,” Lupin tips his head.

“It has proven to be a big help,” Black agrees, ignoring the dig.

“It would have been illegal without my consent you know? Before the war?” Lupin shares, tone apologetic like he’s bearing bad news.

“And I would have been locked up for that previously ‘unforgivable’ curse just now as well — I would have been in the dungeons of the Ministry locked behind bars with no hope for any sort of fair trial. But _luckily,_ for you in particular, I’m not afraid to break nonexistent laws these days,” Black explains, “because _you_ would have been dead.”

A small child diverts from his parents just then and screeches happily as he evades their grasp, and Lupin has to side-step fast to avoid the boy’s flailing hands. “Where do you draw the line then?” Lupin asks, barely recovering from the near collision.

“I don’t have one,” Black shrugs, bumping shoulders in their close proximity, he looks after the parents sprinting now to catch their kid, “They ceased to exist once our world was pulled into chaos.” Lupin huffs an objection of some sort, but Black continues before he has the chance to verbalize them. “You are in no position to be so sanctimonious about it, _sir_. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Do you?” Lupin asks with intrigue.

Black hums, and the sound is almost soothing. He says, “I’ve looked into you, beyond the tiny bits of information that you have told me. You’re being smart with what you are planning to do, but they will catch on. And unless you are willing to work with them and give them some sort of power advantage from what they already have right now—”

“I’m not,” Lupin chimes.

“—then you are putting a bullseye right on your back.”

“They won’t find out—,” Lupin begins to reassure.

“Well they nearly just did,” Black bites out. “Unless you have some sort of superhuman immunity to Veritaserum or whatever else they could have had planned. I’ll take a guess that a truth serum would have been the least of your worries.”

Lupin is quiet for a while, and Black lets the silence linger before he tacks on further, “Muggles are terrified for a reason, Mr. Lupin. They don’t understand what exactly is happening but they _do_ understand that _something_ is happening. Quaint little towns like this are still safe for now, but it would be silly to think that will last. Landmarks are being destroyed, people are disappearing in big cities, and I am assuming that drug abuse is higher than it has been in history because it is being disguised as something else — something that is _seemingly_ less harmful, something that keeps them just happy enough, just safe enough — so that they do not question anything, so that they do not cry out and draw too much attention to whatever it is that is enveloping everything around us. You noticed what the boggarts have turned into during my shows didn’t you?”

“Yes. Parliament burning. And a massive plane crash in the streets,” Lupin recalls morosely.

Black makes a sound that suggests his memory was right. “They aren’t stupid,” he says.

“I never thought they were,” Lupin clarifies.

“They can _feel_ what is out there,” Black emphasizes, and then continues with a sly look over at Lupin, “and better than you can apparently. Their biggest fears aren’t spiders and snakes anymore, because they _feel_ something far more foreboding than that, something so significant that they fear the collapse of the traditional societal structures that they rely upon for stability and protection. But they don’t know what it is, and many of them cannot just up and leave their homes as easily as we can to seek refuge elsewhere.”

“They can’t travel around with a circus that follows the moon?” Lupin deadpans, putting on a pensive expression.

Black scoffs. “Mock it if you want to, but we are safe. Safer than you are. And it’s because of that circus that you are standing here with the use of your body right now.”

“At least I want to stop it,” Lupin tries, but his voice has lost some conviction. “I notice all of these things too, they are the reason for what I am doing. You aren’t alone in it, but _I am the one who wants to stop it.”_

Black must notice, for his face softens a touch when he turns his head to look at him. “We all do. I would just prefer to spare as many wizards as we can, so that we don’t all get wiped out, until an authority steps in that stands a fighting chance. So that people are not fearful of returning here, so that it isn’t one giant waste of resources and lives. And maybe that authority will eventually be you. I hope it is, for your sake, as it seems to mean a lot to you. But it isn’t something that I would like to play a role in.”

Lupin lets out a heavy gust of air. They pass a small restaurant on their right with various couples sitting outside, candles and soft Italian music playing in the background. “One of us is going to give in eventually,” Lupin concludes. “We see so much of it the same way already.”

And it must catch Black off guard, because his face breaks out into an uncharacteristically appreciative smile. “Is that so?” 

“It is,” Lupin confirms without another thought.

Black trains his thoughtful smile at the ground as they walk a few paces in silence. “I know where I stand and you seem more motivated than ever,” Black starts, returning his gaze forward, “even after getting hexed in a godforsaken _alley_. So I find that hard to believe.”

Lupin hums, giving credit where credit is due, and he pauses as they reach the next block. Black carries on walking until he notices that Lupin is no longer beside him, and he doubles back before turning to face him. They stand in front of a quaint building, red brick like most of the rest of the establishments on the main street, three or four stories high. Lupin leans against the wall and fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve, a small movement, but Blacks eyes linger there before returning up to his face. 

“I must say, I have been surprised that you haven’t turned up in the last couple of months,” Black says, and it doesn’t seem to be a difficult admission for him to make.

The corner of Lupin’s mouth crooks up and he tilts his chin. “Do I sense some disappointment?”

Black laughs airily, canines flashing. “That may be so. I appreciate things that are out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, I have noticed,” Lupin seconds. He raises his hand and gestures between them, “So what now?” he goes on. “You are going to keep tabs on me wherever I go?”

“Yes,” Black answers simply.

Lupin nods, impressed by the honesty. “Why’s that?”

Black breathes out another laugh as his eyes move upward, to the side, and then straight back to Lupin. “You are powerful. I can feel it.”

“Oh so you mean that you would like to put me on display in your little circus?” Lupin asks, eyes narrowing, and he’s taking in the rapt expression on the other man’s face.

“I mean that you are _good._ And I would very much like for you to survive,” Black clarifies, but somehow, it doesn’t feel convincing as a narrative.

Lupin gives Black a once-over, and then grabs onto his wrist lightly. The two men must be thinking the same thing, because they move fluidly as they lean in to meet each other’s lips, softly at first, hesitant, then after feeling the reciprocation, more firmly. Lupin coaxes Black’s mouth open, thumb drawing circles onto his wrist, soft and gentle as their lips slot together at a rate that is anything but. Fervent breaths are drawn through their noses as a dam breaks between them, one that they weren’t even sure existed until it shattered into a mess of lips and tongues and soft groans filled with far more sentiment than either man expected. 

“Do you need to get back tonight?” Lupin asks him, and his voice is far more steady than one would expect given the situation. The first quarter moon sits luminously in the sky, and its glow highlights the deep scar on Lupins face, pulling it forward.

“I do not,” Black answers while his eyes slowly scan his illuminated face, and Lupin can feel the warmth of his body this close. “Everything is taken care of.”

Lupin kisses him again, and it’s deeper this time. His mouth slides from the center of Black’s mouth, to the corner of it, over to his jaw line and up, lingering just a millimeter away from Black’s ear. “Let’s get a hotel room. Stay with me tonight.”

Black grabs ahold of Lupin’s waist before turning them both and pushing Lupin flat against the wall. “Absolutely,” he mutters, his hands moving up Lupin’s torso with the same assuredness as his voice. He pushes the length of his body against Lupin’s, who fuses back against him, and both men find that every worry between them has melted away in response. 

A couple minutes pass, lips moving against each other and across exposed skin, and solace is found through the companionship of another person, a worthy person. Black steps away from him first, a hand lingering on the small of Lupin’s back as he guides the man into the hotel they are conveniently standing in front of, the hotel that Lupin had planted himself in front of, and that’s a thought that brings a smirk to Black’s face. They duck in, and it is only minutes before they topple into the vacant room, onto the bed. 

It may not be behind the wrought-iron gates of the circus, but it’s the safest the two men have felt in some time.


	9. Grim Pursuits

Europe is cold these days. Much colder than years past, and in a peculiar way that goes beyond the temperature of the air, sinks deeper than that, through coats and scarves and down into the soul. And in its all-encompassing chill, the air makes you feel somehow separate from others — lonely, maybe — at least, that’s how people had begun to describe it to their closest confidants. But behind the gates of the circus it is _warm_ , and it feels as safe and inviting as wooden coals crackling inside an old stone hearth, and with Black nestled between Lupin’s legs, the two men are hard-pressed to recall that a world outside the tent exists.

Black presses a kiss to the crease beneath Lupin’s right hip, and he reaches a hand up to pull the cigarette out of Lupin’s hand. His free hand moves up the length of his thigh as he takes a long haul, blowing out a trail of dense smoke before handing the cigarette back to the man underneath him. 

“I want to know your secrets,” Black settles on, satisfied with how the day has transpired thus far, but still unable to shift his focus onto anything else at all.

Silence follows, but Black doesn’t mind. His mouth continues its slow path downward along the curve of Lupin’s thigh. 

“I don’t have any secrets,” Lupin finally responds, but his voice is shakier than usual, which is understandable, given the circumstances.

Hmmm,” Black sends him a curious look before his mouth turns its attention to kissing along Lupin’s length. “No?”

“No,” Lupin barely gets out.

“I think you do,” Black counters, lips suspended at barely a hover as he relishes in the expression Lupin has trained on him. “But that’s fine,” he kisses once, keeping eye contact, “Keep your secrets to yourself,” and a second kiss, moving upward, “They all come out in the end, don’t they?”, and a third that lingers.

“Sirius,” is all that Lupin can muster in response as his hip bucks delicately, but based the groan that’s pulled from his mouth, is evidently precisely what Black wants to hear. 

These days are few and far between, days when Lupin can get away from a day at work and Black does not have any business to take care of to keep the circus going. But that makes them even more significant, small pockets of time they steal away for each other within a storm of constant bustle that doesn’t always yield the desired results. Twice a month Lupin is typically able to get away for a day, and as winter rolls into spring, enough time has passed that Lupin knows the _Cirque de Lune_ almost as well as he knows his own work. 

He leaves the gates, the waxing gibbous taking full shape above him and only just breaking through the fog. But he knows that when the full moon hits, when its light fully breaks through to illuminate the circus below in an enchanting glow, he will be far away, as much as he would like to see it. But if Black has noticed the dread that inevitably crosses his face whenever the topic is brought forward, he has not let on, and perhaps Lupin has been conspicuous enough. 

Lupin is sad to leave. It seems to get more difficult every time, but he has work to do, and he has a full moon to endure, so there really isn’t much choice in the matter. He disapparates back to his flat, feeling agitated but relieved, as these types of visits with Black often leave him feeling, particularly around the full moon. 

They don’t talk too much about the situation between them, and there seems to be a silent consensus between the two of them to keep it that way. It works for now, an impenetrable connection that picks up right where it left off between what often feel like impossible tasks that each man must achieve while they are apart. Lupin walks into his flat and sets to research, hoping that the focus takes away from the anxiety that always comes about this time. He had his day away, and now it is best for him to get back to work.

\---

For the only night of the month, a beacon of light pierces through the thick fog surrounding the circus, and the full moon announces its total sovereignty of the sky, bringing with it a new vibrancy and further chatter from the patrons below.

“What is it about the full moon? Why is it the only light that can break through the fog?” people whisper outside of the tents. Many of them on their second or third or even fourth visit. They can feel that tonight is special, every sense is heightened under the power of the full moon. 

Black the Enchanter’s finale will be particularly exciting with the full moon’s bright, enticing allure hanging overhead like a beacon. As the air balloon ascends into the fog, it is designed to feel as though it will never stop on its path through the clouds, taking the guests straight up to the moon and away from everything they know. Higher, higher, higher until in an instant they are back down on the ground, wondering if they ever moved at all.

The possibility of floating into space is just as captivating as it is terrifying. Talk of what’s sure to be a magnetic finale is rampant among the crowd that night, and patrons gather outside of his tent to ensure that they will have a seat. They haven’t quite figured out that the space inside of the tent will accomodate all who are interested.

He only performs one show that night, when the sky is darkest, which gives him hours of freedom before he must make his way to the performance tent. It gives him time to work, to discover the correct formula to ensure that the wards follow the circus to their next destination — Vienna this time — once the new moon graces the sky and a new cycle begins. An onerous task, but his most important one, and thankfully he is becoming better at solving the equation as each moon passes.

But with a quick pull of the curtains behind him, he is interrupted.

“We have a problem,” Leo says, chest heaving as he tries to regain the breath he’d lost.

Black’s heart sinks. He stands up immediately and grips his wand reflexively, but that characteristic calmness in the face of chaos remains. “What is it?” he presses.

“Outside of our gates,” Leo starts, and he rips the curtain shut behind him, barring any of the outside noise before lowering his voice, “a werewolf, apparated here it seems.”

Black balks a moment, not quite believing he heard correctly. He gives Leo one long blink before responding. “Werewolves cannot apparate, are you sure?”

Leo looks as sure as anything. “Right at dusk, perhaps right before his transformation,” he offers.

“Did any of the muggles see?” Black demands, waiting tensely for the answer.

Leo shakes his head immediately, and Black feels his shoulders soften. The tension is still there, hanging like a weight in his chest, but that’s one relief. “Lenore could sense its arrival, so no, we were prepared,” Leo assures. “We got to him in time and everybody is safe.”

Relieved, Black’s posture relaxes a little more minutely. “Is he subdued now?”

“That’s the other thing,” Leo starts, but he is slow as he is still catching his breath. Black sends him a frantic gesture and he continues a moment later, “he is critically wounded. Not sure if it happened before his transformation of after, but Jonna is already on her way over to him. He was bleeding out when we first found him, from a large wound on his chest, I think.”

“Is it safe for her?” Black asks with full alertness.

“We were able to restrain him without any problems. He is very weak but we transfigured a muzzle around his snout to be safe. So yes, it is safe for her to tend to him,” he explains.

Black nods, collecting his thoughts as he wonders what the hell could have brought a wounded werewolf right outside of his gates, and right before a transformation at that. 

“Where do you have him them?” Black inquires.

“We pulled one of the cages that Frederick uses during his show, expanded it, charmed it with some extra protections,” Leo recounts.

“Great,” Black nods, it is exactly what he would have instructed them to do if they hadn’t already. “Provide him with clothes and blankets within reach when he awakes. And make sure that Jonna is still around when the sun begins to rise.” Leo nods, and the situation seems to be taken care of, but Black likes to be informed about what is happening within his venue. “Take me to see him actually.”

“Right now?” Leo asks after a moment.

Black looks down at the formulas he had been working on before the interruption and determines that he is at a proper stopping point. “Yes, right now.”

Leo nods, and without any further lingering around, Black casts a quick spell, clothing himself in basic muggle attire before following Leo out of the tent. Leo leads him to one of the other disguised tents in the foreground of the circus, not invisible to the guests, but not accessible either. 

“ _Conpareo,”_ Leo mutters under his breath, and the entrance to the tent is pulled into visibility. 

The two men enter, and Black is surprised that the scene he finds is not the violent mess that he expected. The cage has been expanded to span half the tent, which is not of an inconsiderable size. A large werewolf lies in the far corner, a bandage is wrapped thoroughly around his right shoulder to the other side of his torso, and he is lying on his left side — the whole picture a stark contrast to anything that Black has ever heard or seen about werewolves. Jonna sits in the corner of the tent, knitting, of all activities, and glances up at the two men upon their arrival.

“He is totally subdued?” Black checks with Jonna.

She hums in the affirmative. “I used a potion,” she adds on easily.

“I thought they were resistant?” Black asks, walking forward, noting that his tense energy is suddenly out of place, and that in itself calms his nerves a bit.

She snorts, needles clicking together delicately in perfect contrast. “Not when you do the bloody research. There is nothing wrong with mixing muggle products in with magic to change the chemistry of a potion. We were prepared for this.”

“Bloody hell, you two could save the fucking world,” Black gestures between Leo and Jonna, somehow surprised even though he shouldn’t be by now. “This is completely handled.”

Leo goes into the logistics of the cage they have enhanced as Black strides over to it and looks in on the wolf. He is not asleep, but his eyelids are drooping heavily and the raspy sound of his labored breathing fills up the entire space like the sound of an old record that’s about to go out. Each inhale sounds like singularly difficult for him, but he is managing all the same. “What do you think we should do with him?” Leo asks. 

Black sighs. “I’d like to allow some privacy, but the circumstances surrounding his arrival are so obscure. I’d like to know what brought him here,” he answers as he moves over to the cage as well. He places a hand against it and lets his gaze linger on the wolf for a minute as he collects his thoughts. The wolf’s eyes go in and out of focus in front of the newcomer for a moment before the lids drop heavily again. “How badly was he wounded when he showed up?”

“Potentially fatal — he would have bled out if we hadn’t caught him, especially without his human faculties to provide him with something to do about it,” Leo explains morosely.

Black shakes his head. “Well I’m guessing that is what he apparated here for,” he concludes. “He would have had to have done that before the transformation was complete. But the timing of it was such a dangerous choice. It’s difficult to apparate when one isn’t in their right faculties, so there must be a significant reason that he risked it during a full body and mind transformation.”

“That’s right,” Leo confirms his train of thought.

Black surveys the wound now, dipping down to get a closer look. The wolf lets out a particularly raspy breath. Perhaps a snarl, but the sound is decrepit and useless. “What was he hit with?” Black asks.

“Looked like the _transpungo_ curse, laced with silver, and it pierced into his shoulder pretty deeply. The wound is not difficult to treat, but the silver poisoning is… well it is a problem,” Jonna explains.

“How does that work?” Black asks, not taking his eyes off of the werewolf.

“Silver poisoning?” Jonna replies. “It’s lethal if left untreated. I used a combination of potions and salves to try to pull it out of the bloodstream. I’m pretty sure that he was not hit with a deadly dose, otherwise it would have worked much faster and he’d be far worse off than he is now. My guess is that it was merely enough to slow him down and render him defenseless after his transformation.”

Black considers this new information as he eyes the layer of bandages around the wolf that is likely twice his size. “That’s interesting. Hit with a non-killing curse right before transformation, with a non-lethal dose of silver. He probably would have been resistant to the _transpungo_ curse in his werewolf form, but the wound did carry over post transformation with the silver already working its way into his bloodstream. And they did not aim to kill, otherwise they would have gone for the heart.”

“Werewolves are probably valuable these days,” Leo chimes in gravely, and they all exchange a look. “Rare too.”

“Most certainly,” Black mutters under his breath before moving around the cage to the corner where the werewolf is lying. He squats down to its level to get a better look. The werewolf lets out a growl at the close proximity now, a fraction of the decibel it should be, but does nothing to deter Black from his current position. He leans closer to the cage, with absolute astonishment of the wolf’s docility in its sedated state, and realizes that bit of defensive effort must have taken his last energy reserve. 

“What are you, sweet creature?” Black whispers as the wolf’s eyes finally drop to a complete close. He watches it breath for a long while, only standing up minutes later when he’d become certain that the wolf had finally fallen fast asleep.

He takes a couple of steps away from the cage. “Why the fuck did the Ministry never research whatever potion you were able to create, Jonna?” Black says, spinning on his heels, angry but taking care to keep his voice down. “It sure would have solved a lot of problems.”

“Werewolf research was never high on the list for funding,” Leo answers instead. “Not quite a priority over there.”

“Of course not,” Black drawls, stopping himself using his energy to go down that rabbit hole and changing the subject to one that is more productive instead. “Does he have a wand?”

“I’m not sure,” Leo offers.

“Check the spot where he apparated, we don’t want it getting lost or picked up by the wrong person,” Black requests.

“Yep,” Leo nods one moment before making his way out of the tent the next. 

Black is quiet, and the only sounds in the room are a lightly breathing werewolf in the corner combined with the clack of knitting needles.

“You don’t need to stay, you know?” Jonna breaks the silence, the rhythm of the knitting needles remaining. “I know that waiting around idly isn’t your forte. I have it taken care of.”

Black taps his foot for four sharp beats. “I don’t like waiting for answers.”

“Sitting around here isn’t going to bring them to you any sooner,” Jonna deadpans.

Black nods once, able to recognize when he’s been bested. “Grab me if anything goes wrong,” he says.

Click click click. “It won’t.”

He sighs and shakes his head with a laugh. “A werewolf showing up out of the blue,” he posits.

“Poachers you think?” Jonna asks.

“I can’t think of anything else that would explain it,” Black confirms.

“We’ll find out soon. Seven more hours about,” Jonna says without looking up again.

Black gives his head another solid shake. There is nothing he can do about it. “Okay Jonna, I will see you in seven hours then.”


	10. The Magician and the Wolf

The circus is quiet. The crowds have emptied out. The activity within the gates has ceased to a complete halt, and a ghost town has taken its place. 

A heavy wave of a woman’s wand rids the grounds of any sign that thousands of patrons had been there merely an hour before. Despite the various creatures housed within the tents — including one new uninvited guest from the night before — a silence transcends the circus arena, and it is sharper than usual, as the light from the full moon is extinguished by the cloud of fog intent on snuffing it out.

One man suddenly exits in a long crimson coat that catches in the dense air as he whips to the left, and the sound of his footsteps on the dusty path echo throughout the hushed area around him. He walks with purpose, his destination not far away, the dark red reflection of his movements following him within the dull gleam of every tent that he passes. He reaches a tent near the back. With a wave of his wand, an entrance appears, and he pushes through it without an ounce of hesitation. 

He looks to the cage first, but it is empty now, the door slightly ajar. But Jonna is still in her chair, and Black would have thought she had been frozen in place for the past seven hours had it not been for the long length of knitted scarf now draped across her lap. 

“How is he?” Black asks intently.

Jonna doesn’t look up. “He’s fine now, but you can ask him yourself,” she answers without a hint of expression, but does offer a shrug on one side of her shoulder. Black turns his gaze in that direction and finds that there has been a bed transfigured on the other end of the tent, black and white ornate bedding, a mound of pillows against the headboard, and one Remus Lupin nestled in between it all.

Black freezes for a moment as he comprehends the scene in front of him. Lupin watches him with alert eyes surrounded by an absolutely worn down face, and if he is alarmed by Black entering the tent, nothing in his demeanor gives it away. He remains silent, holding Black’s gaze without any evidence of discomfort and waits patiently for Black to react first. 

Eventually he does and releases a sharp exhale through his nose. “You idiot,” he settles on, giving the words the same level of careful sophistication he always does.

Lupin raises his eyebrows, and it isn’t until that moment that Black notices the extent of his wounds, with a shock. Where there should be the smooth pale gleam of his skin, Lupin’s shoulders and chest are littered with bandages and sutures.

“Are you alright?” Black asks further, and his voice is gruffer and far more forceful than he intends it to be.

“I am. Your healer is very knowledgeable,” he answers, and the tone of his voice lacks the usual sense of strength that Black has become accustomed to.

Blacks eyes narrow in on him further. “Do you have the energy to tell me what happened right now or would you rather rest first?”

Lupin sighs and gives his face a solid rub, only wincing once from the movement, and looks back up at Black with an almost renewed energy. 

“Now is fine, I think I would have a hard time sleeping even if I wanted to,” he supplies.

Black hums and pulls a chair over to the side of the bed. A quick glance to the other side of the tent tells him that Jonna has read his mind and already vacated the area for the time being. Lupin looks worse up close, the bruising leaving soft hues of blue and black along his cheekbone and much of the skin not covered by bandages. He looks worn out above all, though, like this beating is merely par for the course. The physical exhaustion shines through, but only second to the emotional exhaustion that Black can nearly feel radiating off of his being.

“I’m sure it was far worse before Jonna got to work on me,” Lupin assures him, but it doesn't help all that much.

Black takes a deep breath, taps his foot against the floor. “How long have you been dealing with this for?” he asks, setting his hand on the mound of blanket where Lupin’s knee would be.

“I was bitten when I was six,” Lupin answers with a tilt back of his head. His neck is elongated elegantly and riddled with scars, and the ease with which he answers the question is haunting.

Black nods at the information, but it is a tough pill to swallow. He had previously attributed the scars on Lupin’s body to war injuries, like most of them who were lucky enough to live all had, but now he was sure that battle wounds were the least of it. 

“What happened last night?” Black asks, switching gears. As much as he would like to know the details of how the initial infection incurred, the rest of it was more pertinent. 

Lupin lolls his head to the left to get a better look at Black. “I have a trusted friend, from the war. We fought together. Every full moon he helps keep me contained with the proper spells to ensure that I cannot escape and harm anybody. Since the war ended, we have met at his cottage in the country. There is a cellar there that usually does the trick.”

Black winces because he is quite aware that a cellar is not the type of place that a werewolf prefers, particularly when he is not subdued. 

“What went wrong this time then?” he prods further. 

Lupin releases a sad sigh, and that in itself is a heartbreaking admission. But he answers all the same. “He must have been paid off. They were there, a group of them, waiting for me.”

“Who?” Black urges.

“A group of them, poachers I guess,” Lupin says. “I’m sure my friend was compensated handsomely.”

“Maybe not, since you got away,” Black contends.

Lupin cringes. “No I suppose he might have to bear the wrath of that.”

“Good,” Black supplies with relish, and if the response bothers Lupin, he says nothing of it.

Lupin seems to bite the inside of his lip, debating saying something. “They shot me with silver, in the shoulder,” he reveals.

Black swallows. “How did you manage to get away?”

Lupin nods, thinking about the question. “It felt different this time, everything about arriving there beforehand,” he says. “My friend had been far more interested this month — far more worried that I wasn’t going to show despite that fact that I always do. I don’t have many other choices these days. I should have known.”

“Yes you should have,” Black agrees.

“So I sensed it enough to mentally prepare if it happened. And then I saw the group arrive, and I’m just lucky that they didn’t aim to kill because that gave me a couple of extra seconds,” Lupin says. 

“Next time they will,” Black assures grimly.

“I know,” Lupin sighs, and it is a sound of defeat.

Black is quiet for a long while. He notes that Lupin’s breathing is far heavier than normal. Silver poisoning. Jonna has probably given him some potions to combat it, but it is clear that Lupin is still suffering all the same.

“Werewolf numbers are dwindling in Europe, aren’t they?” Black asks.

Lupin nods solemnly. “Thanks to the registry.”

“And you weren’t registered I’m guessing?” Black posits.

“That’s right,” Lupin nods.

“But now they know,” Black adds.

“Now they know,” Lupin echoes, his words accompanied with a sound that can only be described as helpless. “And they know who I am, everything about me. Sam would have told them everything.”

“You can’t go back,” Black says simply.

“No,” Lupin answers.

“Join us here,” Black tries again, squeezing his knee.

“You know I can’t do that either,” Lupin says, and it sounds genuinely regretful.

“That’s ridiculous,” Black scoffs, and Lupin lets out another long defeated sigh. “What else are you going to do?”

Lupin grabs the bedsheets with a fit and squeezes at them angrily, but even that small movement pull a wince out of him. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“What do you mean?” Black clarifies.

“I’m not going to let them deter me. I’m not going to let a—“ Lupin starts.

“You _will_ get yourself killed,” Black contends.

Lupin huffs, “At least I won’t be backing down.”

“Right, and your death will be for nothing, Remus. They will get precisely what they want, and your death will be for nothing,” Black details with as much evenness to his tone as he can muster. “It gets you no closer to what you want accomplished — if you are killed, it won’t even be a sacrifice for something greater. In all actuality, it gets everything further and further way. I know that you have been through a fucking shock, but try to think rationally please.”

Lupin releases some sound akin to a growl, before arching his back up and pounding his fist onto the mattress in frustration.

“They will kill you,” Black repeats. “You cannot leave here to go back to your old way of life.”

“No?” Lupin laughs, and it is full of disdain but Black gets the sense that it is not aimed at him in particular.

“No,” he responds stoically. “I won’t allow you to leave.”

Lupin laughs again, but it doesn’t last too long. He closes his eyes and rakes his hands through the front of his hair, pressing the palms of his hands firmly against his eyes. “I know you are right,” he eventually settles on, “but I just can’t fucking believe it. That he would betray me like that.”

“I know,” Black responds softly, still not lifting his hand away from Lupin’s knee. “I don’t know if there is anything more painful than being betrayed by somebody who means something to you. But you will accomplish nothing if you make a foolish decision at this point,” he reiterates. “All of your work will have been for nothing and I know that is not what you want.”

Lupin removes his hands from his face and nods slowly, in acceptance. When he speaks again, his voice is dulled but assured. “I’ll go abroad then. Work in the Americas or Asia and keep trying to connect with the right people.”

“You can do that from here,” Black offers.

“I can’t,” Lupin says softly.

“You can,” he emphasizes. “I don’t know why you are so resistant to take me up on my offer.”

“I can’t,” Lupin repeats with a determined shake of his head. “I don’t belong here, traveling around, performing, putting my energy into how to make the experience better for visitors.”

Black shakes his head. “You don’t have to do any of that.”

Lupin stares off ahead without a response. Black follows his gaze and finds that it is set directly on the large cage across the room. When Black looks back at him, he gives a shake of his head. “It’s a big distraction. And I need to be around people who believe in what I am doing, who will inspire me along the way to what I need to get done. You know that this isn’t the place for me.”

Black taps his foot on the hard ground beneath him. “You would rather leave the country altogether then?”

“I probably should have left a long time ago, traveled around the world to find wizards with the same vision that I have, people who want to see everything rebuilt here and have the power to help,” Lupin explains. “I imagine that most of them fled before the end of the war and were smart enough to stay away. Staying here is leading me into one brick wall after another and maybe this is the bloody sign that I needed.”

It’s silent for a few moments. “Where will you go?” Black asks.

“I don’t know,” Lupin huffs, bringing his hands up to cradle his face before his fingers turn a little rougher and push hard into his forehead. “I can’t even go back to my apartment to gather my things at this point. They know where I live.”

“And all of your notes?” Black asks, “And the information about your contacts and what you have been planning?”

“It’s all encrypted,” Lupin mutters monotonously, and Black wonders whether it is the recent turn of events or the healing potions that have rendered him to appear so defeated, “but I cannot go back to retrieve it. They will be waiting.”

“They will,” Black says, “and I can’t imagine that you will be so lucky next time.”

“No doubt,” Lupin agrees.

It is quiet for a long while, an eerie silence existing between the two men who have gotten to know each other not only as people in the last six months, but as lovers as well. A dim light on the edge of the room flickers for a good ten seconds before it goes out and the room becomes a shade darker. Maybe in a different time, they could have explored whatever existed between them deeper, maybe they could have fallen in love and started a life much different from where they stood now. But for now, it is just another example of collateral damage.

Lupin’s eyes are pulled shut, succumbing to the heavy weight of the healing potions pulling them down, and his breathing evens out a bit. Black leans back in his chair and watches as the recovering werewolf in front of him rests — whether he is dozing deeply or lightly is uncertain — but it gives him some sort of comfort that he has this respite from the revelations of the last 12 hours. 

Black reaches over and brushes the fringe on his forehead to the side, a gesture more for his sake than Lupin’s as the hair moves immediately back to where it previously sat as soon as Black’s fingers release their hold on it. His fingers move down his face further, tracing the outline of his nose, the small round of his cheeks, around his jawline and finally resting on the corner of his mouth. His fingers linger there for a moment before he leans over and replaces them with the soft placement of his lips. To his surprise, Lupin turns his neck minutely and kisses him back, soft and slow and it feels like goodbye.

“So where will you go then?” Black asks again, lips still resting on Lupins’, and one hand entangles in the soft waves of hair atop his head, fingers scratching gently against his scalp.

“The Americas I think,” Lupin mumbles, his voice barely audible. “I have a good acquaintance there who has offered it before.”

Black sighs against his mouth. He opens his eyes and finds that Lupin’s are looking right back at him, drowsy, but there. “You are always welcome here. Any time. Whether you change your mind or just need to come back for a short while.”

“I know,” Lupin breathes, but Black can feel that he doesn’t intend to take him up on the offer.

He continues anyway, leaning a bit further back from Lupin, but his hand remaining in place. “They may have put some sort of tracker on you, now that they know who you are. I can’t imagine their magic is as advanced as ours, but it would be foolish to underestimate them.”

“I know,” Lupin repeats. “I cannot be anywhere on this continent right now. Not without the right protections.”

Black nods, and if there’s any disappointment inside, he hides it well. “We need to devise a way to get you out, then. It may take a couple of days,” he says.

Lupin closes his eyes again, but manages to nod in agreement.

“Without the Ministry, we don’t have access to the international floo network, and intercontinental apparation is far too dangerous. I don’t think you should risk muggle transportation, as it puts you out in the open for too long—” Black explains.

“So a portkey it is,” Lupin concludes for him.

Black clears his throat. “We will work it out while you rest. Where would you like to go and who can I contact to arrange it?”

“Contact Marcel Bisset, he teaches at Ilvermorny. He will respond quickly,” Lupin throws out.

“Alright,” Black sighs in agreement, or surrender, or maybe acceptance, he isn’t quite sure. But as Lupin’s eyes are pulled back closed, he knows that the man has made his decision. 

He sits there for another ten minutes. This isn’t the first time that he has watched Lupin sleep, but the circumstances are so different this time. There is something between them, an undeniable connection that should be strengthened by the recent events, but instead, Black wonders if this will be the last time he will ever be in this position again. A cold feeling that sinks into his skin gives him the unfortunate feeling that it is.


	11. The Hall of Mirrors

The sign at the top of the tent reads _Hall of Mirrors,_ but once our guest steps inside, she finds that it is far more than she had expected. 

She is not met with floor-length mirrored glass lining the walls, some making her appear tall, some making her appear wider. But instead, she discovers walls of something akin to water, a glowing liquid, frozen in place and reflecting different images with every new step forward that she takes. 

The reflections are sharp and vivid, as if they are alive independently from herself, but she knows better by now and recognizes it as another complex illusion. The mirror shows her accurately at first, but within a couple of steps, her body ceases to exist and only her scarf is reflected — depicted accurately at first glance, but turning into a checkered red and white with another two steps more. 

A little further down, our guest jumps in fright when she finds her younger self gazing back at her — teenage eyes stretching wide with disbelief as the girl takes a good look directly into her future as her future stares directly back at her past. Three more strides and the wall only shows an empty space, her figure not picked up when she pauses to examine the blankness reflected back at her. A fantastically tall man wearing a simple purple bowler hat walks into the frame, and a quiet shriek slips from her mouth and echoes throughout the room. She looks over her shoulder, expecting to see the tall man behind her, but finds that she is still utterly alone. 

Quicker now, she moves through the hall, her reflection reappearing and depicting her in varying articles of clothing. The tall man appears in some reflections, but is nowhere to be found in others. Faster. Until she cannot find him again. She stops when she reaches a point where the reflection returns to complete blankness, but after looking at the mirror for a couple of seconds, she sees a vast room form expansively behind it.

With hesitance, she reaches her hand forward, expecting to be met with a hard impenetrable surface. Instead, her hand pushes straight through a wall of cool gel until it emerges on the other side, dry and unscathed. Deeming this to be reassuring enough, she walks her body fully through the wall and finds herself reunited with a crowd of other patrons, all gathered around a large pool in the center of the new space she has landed in. 

A crunching sound, and our guest looks down to find the floor of this room covered in black gravel as she makes her way closer and closer to the pool. It is shallow, she can see the bottom when she gets to the edge of the water, and observes that it is covered in hundreds of smooth white stones. A luminous drifting light cascades up through the surface of the water, from beneath the stones, bathing onlookers around it in a lunar glow so vibrant it is as though the moon rests just beneath our guest’s feet. 

Our guest moves her gaze to the middle of the pool, where three lifelike figures stand on a stone platform, elevated for all to see. A mother and father stand on either side of their child, a young boy who is probably only old enough to have just started walking. They each hold one of his hands. The woman has auburn hair and wears a red dress, shaped like something that would be constructed for a ballerina, feathery and laced with white ribbons that flutter behind her. 

Her companion is a tall man with disheveled dark hair that sits in stark contrast to the impeccably tailored pinstripe suit that he is wearing. Thick-rimmed glasses frame his face and the positioning of his head matches the woman’s as they both gaze down lovingly at the boy positioned between them.

Our guest’s eyes linger on the figures in the center of the pool, and the longer she stares, the more she can detect the most delicate of movements. The squeeze of a hand, the turn of a neck, the shifting angle of a mouth. The three of them perpetually gravitating towards each other.

With a blink, the coloring of the figures fades, and our guest startles at the realization that they are merely statues made of stone. She shakes her head quickly in an attempt to recapture the life she just witnessed flowing from them. But whatever was there a minute ago cannot be recaptured again, no matter how hard she tries to will it back. 

She looks down, feeling that something heavy has been mysteriously placed in her hand, and finds that a white stone has appeared there, identical to the ones at the bottom of the water. Our guest sits down on the side of the pool, as the other patrons have, and turns the stone over and over in her hand. The glow beneath the water filters through the open spaces between the rocks and reflections ripple around the room. The air ferries in the scent of the ocean. Salt and sand and a wistful longing for old times that flew by far too quickly. 

Time passes, and each minute feels heavier than the one that came before. The room becomes still, and the tranquility of it all turns into a silent melancholy. 

Memories begin to seep into our guest’s mind. Images that have been hidden in the nethermost corners of her brain are pulled unrelentingly to the forefront. Crushing failures and realizations of dreams squandered. Long lost opportunities for what could have been a more meaningful life. The sound of laughter from a loved one who was lost years ago. The despair of being alone, of leaving the exciting warmth of possibility and then ending up unfortunately alone, alone, alone.

Heartbreaks that have been long forgotten creep in through fresher wounds, piercing and unexpected. 

And the stone is unbearably heavy now. 

She drops it into the pool and feels lighter the second that it ripples down beneath the water, as if what she just released carried with it so much more than a small white stone. A gasp breaks through her mouth as she takes a moment to finally catch her breath again. She looks around, noticing that the room is less crowded now. She turns back to the statue, taking the family in again with a couple of calculated inhalations. Although they have not regained the color she originally viewed them in, something about the three figures remains so lifelike. Her gaze lingers on them and the realness of their architecture, the love that flickers from within their stone bodies, is positively entrancing. 

Her attention shifts onto the boy, and suddenly she is hit with the errant thought that his hair is just like his father’s. 


	12. Illumination

Two winters pass, the second more harsh than the first, and the first more harsh than the years before. It is especially cold on this night, and guests must navigate the icy pathway that leads them up to the iron gates encapsulating the magical world within them. A freezing wind howls like a loud cry throughout this small Polish town, and the large throng of bright-eyed people making their way inside is surprising given the conditions. A new moon hangs over the fog and the tents within it while the pitch black night sky fades into the fog seamlessly, creating an ombre effect that can only be described as supernatural.

And it’s an interesting observation to make, how the crowds have only grown over the years despite the rising sense of dread around the region — a deep unrest that lingers around in feeling only, as it is hard for anyone to recall exactly what has brought it in such droves. But amongst this dread is a particularly bright occurrence in contrast, one that travels around the most desolate cities, offering a strange and welcomed interruption to the eerie doldrums of life.

The circus has grown over the years that have passed, but it is rare at this time that they receive any new arrivals from the magical world at their gates. Magic in Europe has been divided into two clean camps — those who work with the Oculi and those who travel with Black.

Black apparates into his tent after finishing his performance for the evening, wrapped in a silver cape the texture of mercury. With a wave of his hand, his performance attire is transformed into a pair of black jeans and a gray long-sleeved thermal. He has taken to experiencing the circus in a different way recently, having solidified the magic necessary for the safety of the circus months ago. And with no new dangerous incidents or break-ins, he has become free to take on the view of a guest on some nights — observing each act to better understand how they can continue to make the experience bigger and better. 

Business has been good. Very good, in fact. Despite the whispers that precede the _Cirque de Lune_ everywhere it goes, guests are always surprised. And Black would like to keep it that way. 

“An owl came for you,” Helena’s voice breaks Black out of his thoughts as her head peaks in through the curtain of his tent. There is something in her voice that sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Oh?” he asks, seemingly uninterested. Owl deliveries to the circus, not particularly unheard of.

“Well, not an owl actually. A larger bird, giant wingspan — I’ve never seen anything like him. Looks as if he traveled a long way,” she says hesitantly.

Black raises his eyebrows, more interested now, and shoots her a look of curiosity. “So what did he bring? I am assuming that it made it through the wards, so we know there isn’t any dark magic attached to him.”

“No, there isn’t,” she starts, again as if in question. “He is only carrying a letter, but it is addressed to you... and the bird wouldn’t let me anywhere near him. I believe that it is some sort of charm that ensures you are the one who opens it.”

“Wonderful,” Black comments with intrigue. “Where is he?”

“We found him perched on a section of the gate.” 

Black nods. “Alright. Take me to him.”

They weave through the crowds, filing into the passageway of people making their way in the direction of the back end of the circus. Black mumbles a quick spell under his breath when he passes by a small boy, likely around six years in age, and can’t help but smile when the boy squeals with delight as his empty stick of cotton candy is magically replenished, and bigger this time for one extra thrill.

A particularly boisterous group of people is next in sight on their path, crowded in the shape of a half moon around a circus clown performing his act up against the side of a tent. He wears the same checkered red and white jumpsuit that many other members of the _Cirque de Lune_ do, pristine white tulle bursting out around his neck ornately and bringing one's attention upwards. His face is whited out with makeup, reaching all the way up to his jet black hairline, the blood red lining his mouth the only accent on his face, and he juggles three batons set on fire. 

The bright flames rise and fall at impossibly high speeds, but the cadence is impeccable and the clown does not falter in the slightest as the fire pops loudly and grows in size with every additional throw. The crowd’s gasps reach a new decibel when the enormous flames transform into a vibrant shade of blue and appear to swallow the black and white lines of the tent in the backdrop, setting the entire structure in aflame and swallowing it whole in a matter of seconds. 

Black enjoys this moment in particular, being a witness to the guests’ reaction as the clown catches all three batons in one hand, triggering the flames to disappear in an instant. The cheers that follow the realization that the tent remains standing and unscathed are riotous.

But he does not linger longer than he has to, and continues on past the act, focused on following Helena’s lead instead. The further back into the tents they move, the quieter it becomes, and eventually the crowds wither down into nothing. A recent spell that Helena herself devised, the guests are not as far away as the quiet — complete silence but for the sound of tent curtains flapping hollowly against creaking metal poles — would lead one who is lesser-informed to believe, but the privacy is guaranteed. 

And finally, Black sees it.

Perched on the back end of the gate is a large white bird, unlike one that Black has ever seen before. It has the look of a seagull, or some other oceanic bird, but much, much larger. He is unsure if this is a magical creature or not, but would not be surprised if it is. 

“Hello,” he greets the large bird, a soft smile forming along the edges of his mouth at the glaring observation that the bird does not belong with the imagery it is surrounded by. Or perhaps that is precisely why he does.

The bird gives a squawk, and he must be pleased with the new arrival because he reaches his foot out easily as Black approaches. Black takes the hint and unties the attached scroll, taking a risk and giving the bird a soft pat on the side of his body. The bird squawks again, and it sounds like gratitude — perhaps he is magical after all.

The scroll is rolled up tightly, and Black can tell that it is thick. 

“Thank you, Helena,” he says.

“Of course. You’ll let me know if you need anything?” She offers.

“Always,” he mutters, giving her shoulder a squeeze before turning and heading back in the direction of his tent. 

Owl deliveries have become less common over the last year, with most of the remaining wizards and witches having fled the continent a long while ago. The circus has a tendency to attract those who have already lost everything they once knew, leaving few who would need to communicate with anybody on the outside. As Black reflects on this, a peculiar feeling begins to form deep in his stomach, one that he doesn’t want to entertain because the potential disappointment would be far too great. 

But it is there all the same. 

He floats through the crowds, suddenly unaware of the droves of people around him until he mutters the enchantment required to reveal the entrance back into his tent. When inside, he finally takes a moment to look at the wax stamp that holds the scroll together. 

_Ilvermorny,_ it reads. 

Black swallows hard and runs his thumb along the edges of the wax circle. His throat goes suddenly dry. Not much surprises him these days, but this is not something he has thought of in a long while. 

Although, he has thought about it, hasn’t he?

It has always been there in the back of his mind — pushed far behind everything else he can stack in front of it — but it has always been there. Never painful whenever it surfaced, more of a dull ache if he had to categorize it, but present nevertheless. Those things often don’t just disappear, no matter how hard one might try.

He unrolls the scroll. The letter is long and although he has never seen the writing before, it is familiar all the same. Long sweeping penmanship is something of the past, a beautiful art that is all but forgotten at this point, and yet the letter is full of it, and Black does not need to even begin to read it to know who it is from.

Black teeters on the edge of excitement and dread, unsure of what type of news it could bear. He sets it down on his desk, deciding that a glass of whiskey is the right accompaniment for the occasion — readying it slowly without magic before sitting down, taking one long sip and focusing his eyes on the words in front of him.

_Dear Sirius,_

_I apologize for not reaching out to you sooner. I could tell you that I have been busy – which would be true – and haven’t had the time, but the latter would be a lie in the largest way._

_I cannot say for certain, but I believe that it is getting more dangerous in Europe. You were right when you said that timing was impertinent, that it may have to get worse before it gets better. I have not been back since we last saw each other, but I look forward to the day that I can travel freely and see my work begin to thrive. However, I still feel as though that day is so far away that it is difficult to see at times_

_I was naïve back then, when I thought that all it would take was recruiting the right people and creating a vision to reinstate everything that we used to have, as if it would immediately rid the world of what had already taken its place. You were right about that as well. You were right about a lot of things._

_I hope I may return safely within the next decade, that the new infrastructure takes hold soon and the economy reemerges. There have been many magical technological advances here in the States, magic I had never heard of until I came here. We are able to build from afar. The architecture is hidden, but it is nearly completed now. And it is extraordinarily impressive. You would find it all fascinating, and I often find myself wishing that you could share in the experience with me, given your penchant for all things innovative and out of the ordinary._

_In truth, the reason that I have not communicated with you sooner is that you are the only person who I have ever met who feels as deeply committed to something as I do. It is a fact that simultaneously frustrates me and pulls me towards you, even with an ocean between us and two very long years passed. Upon reflection and distance away, I found that the time we spent together meant far more to me than I realized at the time._

_Naturally, it took much of my focus at the time, and that is the real reason I could not take you up on your offer after everything happened. And why I have been silent since._

_I still think of you. You’ll be pleased to know that talk of_ Cirque de Lune _frequently makes its way all the way over to the States, so you are never too far from my mind. I am happy for the updates, I must admit that I even feel nostalgic at times, and in my darkest moments I wonder if I made the wrong decision to travel to North America instead of letting go of my own vision and remaining in Europe with you. But thoughts of London before the war keep me grounded. Diagon Alley in the summer, filled with young witches and wizards who are full of a power they have not yet harnessed, buzzing with excitement as they prepare for their first year at Hogwarts._

_Images like that remind me that I am doing the right thing, and that you are doing the right thing as well. There are bad memories to consider too, of course – a corrupt Ministry, the rise of the Death Eaters, the death of your friends (we never spoke about it, but of course I knew) – but those only spur me to work harder to devise a better system than we ever had before. It won’t have been for nothing, Sirius, everything you were forced to endure. History will not repeat itself in that respect._

_It took me a good while to realize that although our philosophies are different, they are both necessary at a time like this. You are single-handedly sustaining what magic is left in Europe, keeping a troupe of the most talented witches and wizards in the region, and I am working to cultivate a new world for them. I see it now, and I feel even more drawn to you because of it. We are two separate forces, doing what we have been called to do, but in the long run, neither of us will be successful without the other. At least that is how I like to think of it._

_I suppose that I am writing to you now as a sort of goodbye – the goodbye that we never had once you secured the portkey and I only had a couple of minutes to gather my things together before I was transported to Ilvermorny. I like to think that in a better world we would be together – a world where Voldemort never came into existence, or a world where rebuilding had so many less obstacles and consequences than it does now. Perhaps years from now things will be different and we can both drop these duties we have adopted at the cost of everything else. But for now, I think that I need to say a real goodbye to you, so I can keep things moving forward. I also needed to make you aware of how much I truly appreciate everything that you have done and continue to do._

_So goodbye for now, Sirius. Our time together was short, but I will never forget it. I sense that once everything begins to take shape, I will chase what we had two years ago. Whether or not I ever find it again I am less optimistic about. But I am thankful for the memories we shared, and I am lucky to have known you._

_Yours,_ _  
__Remus_

Black reads it over once, and then he reads it over again, an entire chamber of his mind reopened now. It comes rushing back to him in an instant, that otherworldly buzz hitting his body like a ton of bricks, causing him some sort of whiplash for how long he has gone without.

A walk sounds appropriate to Black right now, a walk by himself in the darkness of night without another living soul in any discernible proximity. But he doesn’t have that luxury, not with the droves of guests outside his tent and the potential danger waiting for him outside of the gates. After downing the rest of his whiskey, he settles for a cigarette instead. 

Lights around him dim quickly with a flick of his wand, and the red embers of the cigarette burn brightly in an otherwise darkened gray room. The chair beneath him lets out a pathetic creak as he leans more of his weight back against it. A long inhalation follows, and then the resulting stream of smoke that is far more translucent in the dimness than it should be.

Minute after minute passes as Black mulls over the words he has just read. He cannot decide if he is happy to have heard word from America or if he would have preferred continuing on without knowing any further information. But knowledge is always good, and he is grateful for it. And he is grateful to hear that Lupin is safe, and that he is flourishing, even despite his struggles — Black cannot deny the disappointment and worry he felt after the man had left that afternoon and never sent word beyond confirmation of his safe arrival. 

He finishes his cigarette and drops it onto the floor before putting it out with the heel of his boot. The lights around him brightens upon its fully extinguished flame, and Black reads the letter over one last time before reaching for his quill and a piece of parchment. 

\---

“Thank you,” Lupin beams up at the woman at the head of the lecture hall. He stands by the front row of seats, one hand planted on the back of the seat nearest to him.

“I’m thrilled to have someone to spew on and on about this with, so trust me when I say this is mutual,” Polly laughs warmly as she sits down in the chair situated at the corner of the lecture hall. “I wish my students cared a fraction of how much you do. It’s funny how much more interesting knowledge becomes when you are out of school, isn’t it? Suddenly, when you’re not forced to learn anymore, it becomes such a luxury.”

“One of the cruel jokes of life,” Lupin quips, his fingers giving a couple of taps to the chair as he speaks. “Especially here, it’s a fantastic school. I’m envious of the students, to be quite honest.”

“That much different than Hogwarts?” She asks.

“I’m not sure actually, I was taught by private tutors,” Lupin clarifies. “I only ever visited.”

“Oh, I assumed incorrectly… I figured since you were born and raised in the UK,” she elaborates.

“The whole werewolf thing,” Lupin gestures over himself. “It was a different time back then. And it’s not perfect yet, obviously, but it certainly has improved since I was schooling age.”

“And it will improve back in Europe too, once things get moving. Especially with you at the helm,” she gleans with a wave. “And until then, you can continue living here and soaking up all of the information you want.”

“I appreciate that,” Lupin muses. 

“And it’s not like we don’t love having you around, I can’t think of any other person who can be a guest speaker on so many topics,” she adds with a pointed smile.

“That’s kind of you to say. I’d hate to be the man just hanging around the castle and talking with whatever expert I can find on anything remotely related to rebuilding an entire community,” Lupin laughs. “It would get old eventually.”

“I can’t think of a better use of our resources,” Polly presses on, giving a short flick of her hand before the various documents on her desk tidy themselves up. “You’ll let me know if you have any further questions about what we talked about today?”

“Polly, you are my hero when it comes to the fusion of magic and muggle technology. So you are going to hear so many questions from me that you are going to celebrate when I finally leave,” he says.

“Never too many,” she waves him off as she gathers the documents that they had been reviewing ten minutes prior. “I need to head out for my office hours, but let’s do this again? Same time on Friday?”

“Absolutely,” Lupin confirms.

Lupin leaves the large classroom, which is a lecture style room and nothing like the smaller classrooms at Hogwarts — as the continent’s only school of witchcraft and wizardry, Ilvermorny is far more populated. 

He wanders in the direction of the courtyard, past a group of students who should probably be in class this time of day, but that’s not his problem to worry about. He walks out of the castle — more modern in architecture than Hogwarts, but still with its own peculiar charm — and towards the cluster of trees situated about half a kilometer away.

It reminds him of Hogwarts here, in this little circle of tall, red pine trees. The aesthetic is different, sure, and the air certainly feels different, but it is enough for him to reflect on the vision that he wants back in Europe. A new Hogwarts. A new Beauxbatons. A new Durmstrang. Completely rebuilt but with the same ties and traditions they had all respectively housed for hundreds of years. A fusion of old and new, stronger architecture, both literally and figuratively, but the same old atmosphere. So much of what people remember about the schools is gone forever — professors and headmasters who were not supposed to leave so soon, secret passageways throughout the castles that had been plotted to perfection, artifacts from the schools’ original founders — but he plans to salvage whatever he can, for the memories, and for lasting ties that will remind the new students of the roots that took hold long before the War wiped them out. 

Lupin lets out a gust of air as he sees the large albatross come into eyesight in the sky above, and his stomach dips dramatically. He had been uncertain whether Black had ever adopted use of email in the circus — probably assuming correctly that he had not — and it is a relief to see that his bird has presumably made the trip over to Europe and then back again successfully. 

A couple of weeks have passed since he had sent Black the letter, and after having become accustomed to instant communications with most of his colleagues around the world, waiting for the great bird to return had been a challenge. But here he is, flying gracefully through the sky and angling down towards him, a small piece of parchment attached to his right leg. 

Lupin stands up where he sat on the ground, reaching an arm out fully for the bird to perch itself comfortably on. 

“Hello there,” Lupin greets the bird as he lands with a soft thud and sticks his leg out. “What a long trip you’ve had,” he adds while untying the parchment, “at least this was light along the way.”

Lupin reaches into his bag and pulls out a variety of berries and nuts for the bird to feed on after his long trip. He takes his time eating the treats, but Lupin’s mind is barely there, his hands are working on autopilot, as he thinks about the piece of parchment in his pocket. The piece of parchment with a black wax seal of a hot air balloon securing it shut. 

The bird is finally satisfied minutes later, and he flies away in the direction of the ocean. Lupin’s right hand shakes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the rolled up scroll. He delicately picks at the seal, not wanting to rip even a portion of the paper, and sits down as he reads the response that he has been far too eager to receive. 

_Dear Remus,_

_I often think about the afternoon when you left. The portkey was set up outside of the gates of the circus. I walked you out there, and maybe I had an inkling that this would be the last time I would see you for a long time, but I don’t think I truly understood how long it would be. You seemed disheartened then, a far cry of the man I had gotten to know during the nights that we spent together — determined and principled and stubborn to a fault. I knew it would be a temporary setback, but in that moment, the disillusionment was so palpable that you could have been a different man altogether. But before you took the portkey, you looked at me and smiled — one last goodbye I realize now. Outside of the gates, beyond the fog, and under the sun, the small smile lit up your face in a way I had not seen before, and it wasn’t difficult for me to accept that you needed to go._

_Because sunshine becomes you._

_I believe that you are correct when you say that we both made the right decisions for ourselves — it seems as if we both came to the same conclusion upon retrospect. You don’t belong locked away as a part of a group that comes to life after nightfall, waiting in the shadows for a better world to develop. You belong in the forefront of it all, unafraid and undeterred and living under the sun._

_Things have calmed down here; there is something different in the air now, a strange indifference to what the world has become. A dulled acceptance. Like memories of the past have faded away for many of our guests and they would rather accept things as they are than to strive for something different, like they willingly forgo remembering better times because it is too painful to look back. I am happy we can provide something out of the ordinary for them — and they enjoy it too if the ever-increasing business is any indication — but I am happy to know that you are out there, trying to create something more than this. And although, if I give myself time to think about it, I would desperately like to see you again, knowing that you are doing what you are destined for is good enough for now._

_I do miss you too, of course. I miss the way that you strode into our gates, without an ounce of fear, and took it upon yourself to draw my focus over to you. Shameless from the moment that I first saw you, and that trait carried forward to the night that I found you in the alleyway, do you remember? I will never forget those moments that we spent together, just the two of us and that frantic buzz between us that never seemed to die. Do you think it would have died out by now had you stayed? Because I do not. Not with the way it made me feel every time I was able to pull my own name out of your mouth or every time I woke up to find you fast asleep next to me, looking as if you hadn’t a care in the world, even though I know that you carried many. I felt it again simply from the presence of your written words._

_So goodbye for now, Remus Lupin, though I do not think that it will be forever. When the time comes that it is safe enough for you to return to Europe again, when you don’t have to hide behind the fog and within the darkness, but instead you can walk in the sun, as the leader that you are, come find me. I will be waiting._

_Sirius Black._

_P.S. — Or maybe one day I will come and find you instead._

Lupin swallows something akin to a cry after he has read the letter a couple of times over. There is a small drawing on the corner of the letter, a wolf howling at the full moon, which is just slightly blocked by the outline of a black and white striped air balloon. That is enough to send a chill of sadness and longing throughout the entirety of Lupin’s body, and he puts the letter facedown in the grass next to him. 

The handwriting on the page feels intimate — the words even more so — and even though Black is nowhere nearby, his words have the same pull as his physical presence. And that pull is strong enough to assure him that he has done the right thing staying at Ilvermorny — a place that brings him closer to achieving his vision. Even though it will never be his home, and he will never truly belong, it is the right place for _now._

Yet he cannot help but acknowledge how odd it is, how meeting one right person could threaten the direction of his life so easily, could open his mind in a way that he did not necessarily want, but definitely needed. The time they spent together was minimal, but it is clear that no time or distance has the ability to fade whatever it is between them.

His body feels weighed down in the moment, reminders of what he once had — or could have still — tend to do this for a brief period of time under the weight of his burdens that never seem to lift. But the feeling will pass. Lupin is quite accustomed to putting these desires last. Vivid images pass through his mind — tents and contortionists, fire and cotton candy, enchanters in black and jugglers in white. And then, more lucid than the rest, lying in an intimate embrace, safe and seen, with the only man who has ever truly been his match. 

He lets them linger, lets himself have this moment before he pushes the visions away, replacing them with thoughts of specific architectural calculations and future business plans. A rebuilt Diagon Alley, newly forged galleons and sickles, a packed stadium at the Hogwarts’ quidditch pitch. But right now, he only sees them all in black and white. 

And he makes a decision there, surrounded by the large trees hovering their branches over him, and feeling a renewed appreciation for the brightest light in one of his darkest times. A decision he hadn’t realized was even up in the air until reading the letter carried in from somewhere in Europe. 

He has not seen Black in two years. And perhaps it will take another ten before he sees him again.

But it’s clear beyond reckoning that this is not the end.


End file.
